


this doesn't change anything, except almost everything

by civilorange



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, extra!cat, good cousin!kal-el, prison parole!astra, vigilante!kara, worried sister!alex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-04-08 09:22:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14102346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: Senior year you’re votedMost Likely to Save a Life.or// the one where kara's human, but she becomes a superhero anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a prompt written for **@ckdhaven** and it's going to be a two-parter, because it got a little out of hand somewhere along the line.

They die on a Tuesday.

Just after Thanksgiving and still weeks away from Christmas. You’re walking home with your cousin, Kal-El, and you’re pointing out the heavy clouds that _just might_ be snowclouds.

“Snowclouds aren’t a thing,” Kal-El says, the fourteen year old hefting his bag a little higher—he’s four years your senior, but he’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember.

And you can remember a lot.

“If rainclouds are a thing, why can’t snowclouds be a thing?” You’re ten and think you know exactly how the world works—your father’s the smartest man in the world, after all.

“That’s just stupid,” he says, rolling eyes that match your own.

“It just makes sense.”

It’s Tuesday night and the weatherman says there’s going to be a _blizzard_. You’re already planning what to do on your day off from school—which mainly amounts to building an igloo and pummeling Kal-El with enough snow to make him into a snowman.

Looking up as you walk, you wait for the first snowflake to fall so that you might catch it on your tongue—your aunt used to tell you impossible things can come true with the first snowflake of winter. She’d bring you outside in your pajamas and boots much too large for your feet and dance through the yard with you on her shoulders.

But that was years ago—before a fifteen-year manslaughter charge.

The clouds rumble quietly, and you wait on bated breaths until Kal-El’s smacking your arm and making you look. Your parents wait just inside the light of a lamppost, hands tucked into their armpits to stay warm, and you feel a little bad for making them come pick you up.

You were supposed to be home hours ago, but you’d only been half-way through your allowance when your curfew came around.

You know you’re going to be grounded for the next _forever_ , but you think it’s worth it. Especially because you know your father will let you off early.

He always does.

Kal-El grins at you and sprints off across the parking lot; the Kents live down the block, and you know he usually walks to the arcade anyway. You live clear across town, and know you’d only be in more trouble if you walked home alone at night.

Exhaling, you look back at your parents.

Your mother’s frowning, and your father’s trying not to smile, and you wave a little when you start stepping out of the alley—until you see the man. He’s hunching forward, and stopping right in front of your parents—their mouths are moving, but you can’t hear anything they say.

Your mother’s shaking her head, and your father’s extending his hand as if to push the man away.

 _Bang, bang_.

You don’t hear anything after that—just the echoing _bang, bang_ that vibrates in your teeth. Your bones rumble and your blood freezes. Your father’s still reaching out, and your mother’s still frowning—nothing’s changed. Nothing. _Bang, bang_.

Except they’re falling.

The man’s run off with your father’s keys and your mother’s bag, but that isn’t important because your parents are falling.

 _Thump_.

Knees on cold pavement, the heels of palms smacking down hard enough that you can hear it from where you’re standing in the alley. No noise, nothing; just a drowning silence.

Your jaw hurts—you don’t realize you’re clenching your teeth.

 _Screaming_.

All the sound punches back in and all you can hear is screaming—your mother’s mouth is open, and your father’s lips are moving, and they’re both looking at you. You want to ask them to stop screaming—your head hurts, and your chest aches—but they aren’t screaming. You still can’t hear them.

You’re screaming.

People are flooding out of the pizza parlor and the laundry mat—older people who do their laundry on Tuesday nights, and kids from your school spending their allowance before the end of the month.

Your cheeks hurt, and your throat aches, and you’re running.

You slip.

Your shoe skittering out from underneath you until you’re slamming down onto your knees beside your mother. You’re cold, and numb, and something’s seeping into the denim of your jeans—you look down, slicking the cold wet away with your palms.

They’re crimson.

Blood.

“Mama,” you whimper, reaching out red, red hands to palm at her cheeks; to hold her face like she would when you were sick. She isn’t frowning anymore, she’s smiling, and it’s beautiful. She hasn’t smiled since her testimony put your aunt in jail.

You want to be as beautiful as your mother one day.

“My darling baby girl,” she says, voice weird but soft. You’re crying, and the droplets are hitting her cheeks, which only makes you cry harder—there’s blood on her face, big wet spots of red.

“Mama,” you weep, pawing at her coat, only to find more, and more, and more red. You don’t know what to do, don’t know how to makes this _stop_ , to make this better.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” your father says, his large warm hand reaching out shaking fingers toward you. You duck into his grasp, letting him comb through your hair—not realizing he was streaking it red with blood. “We love you so much, baby girl. So much.”

There’s sirens.

“Helps coming,” you plead. Pressing, and pressing, and pressing against the hot red pouring out of your mother’s chest. It doesn’t stop, nothing stops. “Please, please, please…”

You say it over, and over—even after they stop talking. Even after the red stops and the cold prevails. Whispering _please, please, please_ into your mother’s dark hair, your father’s heavy wool coat. Your fingers are cold, and stiff with blood, and you just want to make this all stop.

Make this all go away.

.

It doesn’t end up snowing.

.

The Danvers are nice but they’re not from Smallville, so you have to move out of your house—their daughter, Alexandra, helps you pack everything up and doesn’t say anything when you leave the photo albums and the family antiques.

“You’ll have your own room,” Eliza says, and she’s nicer than nice—but she reminds you of your mother.

“Thank you,” you say, because you were raised to be polite.

“Do you need anything else, sweetheart?” You’re standing in a room that doesn’t look anything like _your_ room, and you can only drop your duffle bag of clothes onto the floor. The windows are closed because it’s almost Christmas and it’s snowing outside.

You forgot to wait for the first snowflake.

“No,” you say, blinking away tears that don’t even begin to form—your eyes are dry and you think maybe you’ve cried all your tears away. Does a person only have so many tears for their life?

You must’ve run out.

“Goodnight, Kara.”

.

You can’t sleep.

Your dreams are red, and your hands are cold, and the voices whisper too softly for you to ever hear them, but you know what they’re supposed to be saying.

 _Please, please, please_.

.

When you wake up from a nightmare you look up to find the star stickers that your father put on your ceiling—but they’re not there.

Because this isn’t your room, and your father’s dead.

.

“Hey,” Alexandra’s standing in your doorway and you blink because you think this is the first time you’ve seen her this week. Let alone in your room.

“Hey,” you say, tucking your hands into your armpits to stay warm.

The house is warm, but you’re always cold.

“I was walking home,” she starts stepping past the doorway and into your room. “And I saw these in the bookstore, and thought maybe we could…”

She trails off, but she’s extending something.

Star stickers—thick plastic glow-in-the-dark stickers that are almost identical to the one’s your father had bought when you were young and afraid of the dark. Alexandra smiles and steps a little closer so that you can take them out of her hand.

“I saw them in your room, and I want you to feel at home here.” It’s sweet, and you sniffle a little—the plastic bites into your palms when you rush up to hug her. She _oomphs_ and braces herself, but hugs you back tightly.

“Thank you,” you say, and mean it.

.

When you wake up now, you blink awake to see the stars—they’re in a different order, in actual constellations that Alex was really good at remembering, but they’re comforting anyway.

.

And on the nights they aren’t?

You walk down the hall and climb into bed with Alex who hugs you tight enough to make you feel safe again.

.

The Danvers are nice.

You think they might love you.

You kind of love them too.

.

You get into your first fight two weeks after you go to school.

Girls are mean, and you wish they weren’t—you wish Kal-El was here to make you feel better, make you feel safe, make you stop being this person you’ve become.

You don’t break Christina’s nose, but it’s bruised, and you aren’t sorry.

Alex has to pull you off her in the courtyard, and doesn’t move from your side when you wait for the principle to call _your parents_.

She holds your hand when you flinch at the phrase, pulling you into her side and refusing to return to class.

“I’m right here, Kara,” she whispers, “I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

.

You don’t tell her everyone leaves eventually.

.

“It’ll teach you discipline,” Jeremiah says, chewing his mouthful of meatloaf while gesticulating with his fork.

“How will teaching her how to fight, prevent her from getting into fights?” Eliza questions, rolling her eyes a little at her husband. You don’t really like meatloaf, but you don’t want to hurt Eliza’s feelings, who has a _special recipe_ for it.

Your mother never made meatloaf.

Your mother knew you hated it.

“It’s not just learning to fight,” he protests, chugging down half a glass of water. “It’s learning _when_ to fight. It’s about restraint.”

.

Which is how you end up going to Taekwondo three days a week after school.

.

It’s mostly kicking, and very little punching, and your _sabomnim_ is a middle-aged woman with a beautiful face and kind eyes. She speaks softly, and doesn’t mind repeating herself. She makes no comment when you don’t count along— _hana, dul, set, net_ —but waits for you to bow, so that she might bow back.

You’re a white belt, and a little older than most of the other kids in your class, but it doesn’t bother you.

It’s easy to forget everything else when you’re breathing carefully with every _ap-changi_ or _dollyo-changi_. There’s no place for thoughts when you’re going through forms, or practicing the routines.

Its technique, and rhythm, and concentration—and after a few weeks…you forget why you’re trying not to think.

You don’t forget your parents, but you forget being angry.

You focus on your breath, and your fists, and everything that is you—right now.

“You’re doing so much better, Kara,” your _sabomnim_ says when walking you out after class, your dobok straightened, and your sparring bag on your shoulder.

“I feel better,” you admit, and _sabomnim_ Prince smiles.

.

And for the first time in so long.

It’s true.

.

You’re fourteen when Kal-El finally visits. He’s older, and really looks those extra four years when he picks you up off the ground and spins you around. You’ve only spoken to him on the phone, or over AOL Instant Messanger, and it’s a little startling to see him in person after so long. He’s much taller, and looks like an adult—which makes sense because he’s going away to college this autumn, and this might be the first and last time you seem him for a while.

“What’s up, Littlest El?” he says, rubbing your hair a little roughly, grinning down at you with a smile you recognize because it’s your father’s grin. A particularly _El_ expression, your aunt would say when she came over to visit.

“Nothing much,” you say, ducking out from the noogie and batting away his hand—he’s a little surprised at how deftly you do it, but he doesn’t know you’re going for your first _dan_ in only a month. That you have two silver medals and a gold medal in sparring at the junior Olympics. “How long’re you staying?”

Kal-El grins, wider, and wider still, “the whole summer.”

He lets that sink in, and you squeal.

Throwing yourself at him, he catches you easily and spins you again. “I’ve missed you, Kara, and I wanted to—I don’t know—get to know each other again. I’m here for you.”

You’re hugging him, and you’re crying.

“I’m here,” he says, over, and over, and over. “I promise.”

.

Maybe not everyone leaves.

.

Your high school part-time job is teaching the toddler classes at your _dojang_ ; it’s after school, and _sabomnim_ Prince thinks you’ll be good with little kids. They’re loud, and uncoordinated, but they’re precious, and you love each and every one of them.

You play Power Rangers, and tumble with them when they’re just a little too tired to do the forms again.

You wait by the door as each student ties their shoes and walks out with their parents. Smiling, waving, a bowing dramatically to each and every one of them.

“You’re good with them,” _sabomnim_ Prince says when you’re putting away the mats and heavy-bags. When you’re picking up the wooden boards that have long since been kicked in halves by the older students.

“They’re kids,” you say, holding out your arms so that she could pile another few pads onto your hold. “What’s not to like about kids?”

She just laughs.

.

You’re sixteen the first time you—well, you stop a mugging.

There’s a beer and beverage that gets robbed at least once a month at the edge of town—polite robberies, if there is such a thing. The owner expects it, and doesn’t even put up much of a protest anymore—it’s the weirdest thing, but no one ever gets hurt. No one ever draws a weapon—more than the aimlessly swinging bat that’s always out—and it’s…civil. In a way.

As much as they can carry—usually bread, and eggs, and cases of water—and that’s that.

The mugging happening two hour after said robbery? Well, civil’s the last thing it is

The girl’s tugging on her bag and yelling, but her voice is muffled by the scarf wrapped around her lower face; you don’t know her name, but you recognize her. She goes to your school and needs help with Earth Science.

“Just gim’me the bag, bitch,” the mugger is hissing, tugging and gaining traction. He’s older, and bright at the eyes, and you recognize the pale waxy complexion of someone in need of a fix. Midvale isn’t known for their crime—sans monthly beer and beverage robbery—but there is a bit of an opioid problem.

You’re sprinting across the parking lot before you can stop yourself—before you can think about a night too similar to this one. Before you can think about first snow flakes and red, red blood and all the things that used to haunt your dreams.

You startle them both, and the mugger lets go of the bag, a _snap thump_ as the girl stumbles backward into the wall of store.

“Hey, hey,” you’re saying, hands up—knowing _when_ to fight, ringing like a mantra in your head—but the mugger’s pulling out a knife, and brandishing it with a crazed look in his eye.

Right now seems like a real good _when_.

.

The girl doesn’t say anything at school the next day.

Nothing about how you’d kicked the knife out of the man’s hand, nothing about how you’d held him in a headlock until he’d tapped out on your arm. Nothing about how you waited with her until the police arrived; taking a moment of inattention to slip away unnoticed.

She doesn’t say anything, but she always smiles.

.

It’s not a _habit_ , but you don’t mind when it does happen.

Girls scared to walk home after parties, boys too small to stand up for themselves—anyone, everyone. You want them to feel safe, you want them to go to sleep at night without nightmares and fears and worries for tomorrow.

It doesn’t mean you don’t grin whenever Alex points to some third page Midvale Marauder article about a masked vigilante battling the town’s opioids one robbery thwarted after another.

It doesn’t happen often, but you don’t mind when it does.

.

Senior year you’re voted _Most Likely to Save a Life_.

.

National City is much bigger than you thought, even despite all the visits to see Alex. The buildings tower, and the chrome sprawls, and you feel impossibly small. You spend an entire weekend on Alex’s couch wondering if you were making the right decision.

“Maybe I should just stay home,” you ask the dark, knowing Alex is listening despite how many times she’d announced _I’m going to bed_. “Go to community college.” You’d jumped on the acceptance letter, at the chance to get out of Midvale and _see something new_. But now weeks into the decision, and days away from home, you’re beginning to wonder if maybe you’d be better off at home.

“Don’t be stupid, Kara,” Alex moans into her pillow, muffling every word. You hear her and exhale—National City’s much bigger than you thought.

But that’s okay—you’re alright.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I got this.”

.

They let your aunt out early for good behavior.

You thought it was only like this in movies—the gates clinking open, the fence groaning as it’s pulled wide. Your aunt looks older than you remember, but then again, it’s been ten years since you’ve seen her. The breath seizes in your lungs because this is what you mother would have looked like if she’d been able to grow older—if she’d been able to go white at the temple, to have lines at the corners of her eyes.

“Aunt Astra,” you say, and you don’t want your words to shake, but they do. Kal-El puts a hand on your shoulder and holds you steady—your cousin had promised to be here. And he’d flown in from Metropolis to prove that he wouldn’t forget you. Still proving to you years later that not everyone leaves.

“Little one,” she breathes, and smiles. She’s beautiful, just like your mother, and something loosens in your chest—you want to yell, want to scream, want to blame her for everything that happened.

If she had only cared about you as much as she cared about the environment she would have been there when your parents died—would have taken you in and eased the burning pain in your _everything_.

—but another hand glances off your wrist, and you turn to see Alex. Who you would have never had if Astra hadn’t gone away. Who would be nothing more than a stranger you might’ve run into. A nameless face on a train.

You don’t know if you’re willing to risk that—if it’s an even trade anymore.

.

She says _I’m sorry_ like she means it.

It just might be enough.

.

It’s January and you have a week before your semester starts back up again.

You always remember to wear scarf when you go for late-night walks. Something to cover up most of your face so that you might be able to avoid identification—you know there’s a general description going around, and you also know that it’s very inaccurate.

National City has crime for the sake of crime—broken store fronts and stolen cars. There’s legitimate gangs that you really don’t want to tangle with.

You’re a part-time vigilante—not stupid.

The police have stopped trying to follow when you spring up onto the fire escapes—when you leap from roof to roof. Parkour a dangerous enough activity for those who were _good_ at it, let alone civil servants weighed down by fifty pounds of gear.

“Anyone waiting for you at home, super girl?” A beat cop asks from the ground—his knee in the middle of a young male’s back. A man who had gotten a little too forward with a woman trying to get home.

“Does a cat count?” You ask, crouching on the top of the nearest fire escape. Scarf over your face, hood pulled up. The officer smiles and shakes his head.

“Captain wants us to bring you in, y’know?” He says again, tugging the man up by his forearm. “Thinks you’re a menace or something.” You appreciate that both partners scoff a little when he says it—it maybe warms something in your chest.

Maybe.

“You gonna bring me in, Richie?” You know them by name, know them by the careless itch to the back of the neck and the picture of the Virgin Mary in their notepads.

“Na’w, not tonight.” He says shoving his arrest into the back of a cruiser. “S’cold.”

His partner pipes up from his spot at the driver’s side door, “stay warm, super girl.”

.

You spend the whole next semester dodging CatCo reporters.

.

You’re lucky—or unlucky—because the police radio chirping away in your ear confirms that the license plate you’re looking at, is the one supposedly behind an abduction. No name yet on the woman snatched off the street, but you’re not willing to wait for something that doesn’t matter.

You can hear Alex in your ear— _don’t be an idiot_ —but you’re not listening.

There’s four men, all laughing a little too loudly, the echo of their voices pinging off the high metal rafters and the cheap tin siding of the warehouse.

“We’re going to be millionaires,” one’s cackling, his gun brandished and gesturing to the younger man who has already taken his mask off.

“Wasn’t even hard,” another’s saying, his hand set on the shoulder of whoever they abducted—bag over the head, wrists tied together in their lap. She’s dressed in what’s probably a very expensive business suit, one of her shoes lost somewhere you can’t see. “Should’a done this _ages_ ago.”

The woman bristles—raising her bound hands to slap at the hand on her shoulder—the man recoils.

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, words muffled through the bag. “Please continue to self-congratulate. It’ll make your inevitable failure much more poignant.” You want to tell her to _shut up_ , and that she’s currently amidst four armed kidnappers, but you’re impressed.

Really impressed.

No waver in her voice, no fear—just strong conviction and confidence.

.

One of the kidnappers walks outside to go to the bathroom, and you do feel a little bad when you wheelhouse kick him in the back of the skull—letting him fall forward into the puddle he had just made.

Only a little bad.

.

You tuck his pistol into the belt of your pants.

Safety on.

.

The second comes out only a minute or two later. His glower severe and etched deeply into his weathered features.

“Where’d that dumbass go,” he grumbles as he let the door close a little too loudly behind him. You drop down and press a knee into his lower back. He stumbles forward but doesn’t go down—you duck out of the way of his swinging haymaker and jab him quickly in the ribs twice.

He groans, trying to grapple at the loose fabric around your face and manages to twist it free. You duck under another swing and land a hard shot to his jaw with the hard rubber sole of your boot.

.

Two down.

.

No one else comes out to check on them, which means you have to go inside. It’s brighter inside than you thought it would be, which means you must slip from pocket of shadow to pocket of shadow. Ducking between car headlights until you’re close enough to make out the two kidnappers left. Both sitting in the beam of light, both looking down at their mobile phones like they’re expecting a call.

Their…kidnapee... kidnaped? _The woman_ sits in her chair, shoulders still thrown back, and chin still high enough to seem more annoyed than anything.

“Aye, maybe this isn’t a hot idea?” The young man says from where he’s sitting on a pile of pallets. “Something about this doesn’t feel right.” You mentally encourage him to follow that feeling, to leave the building and _go home_ , wherever that is. But his companion barks a laugh, and even the woman flinches at the sound.

“I ain’t leaving till I get what this bitch is worth,” _millions_ , you’re assuming. Slipping through one final length of darkness, you’re behind the man with the phone; he’s looking down, and you’re coiled to spring.

.

 _Hana, dul, set, net_ —you’re counting in your head for every step he’s allowed. A roundhouse kick to the side, and sliding axe kick—you miss, you’re surprised you miss, and your heel cracks through a pallet. He’s shouting, making enough noise to almost ruin your concentration. He’s fumbling with his belt, and you can’t let him get a weapon out—you rush forward three steps, and start your count from zero.

He doesn’t make it to _dul_ before you have him on the ground. A stomping front kick to his pelvic girdle, you feel the metal of his gun even despite the sole of your boot.

You’re checking his pulse when you hear the last kidnapper behind you—pulling out the gun from your belt, you point it at him.

He can’t see much of your face, your back is to the headlights, and he’s squinting—his own gun half-held at his side, and you encourage him one last time to leave.

“Walk away,” you say, pitching your voice lower than absolutely necessary—you don’t have your scarf, all you have in a hood, and some favorable lighting. “Just walk away.”

.

He does, and you’re left with a woman tied to a chair.

.

“Hey, uhm,” you try, nervously walking up to her—making enough noise that she hears you, that she knows you’re not one of her kidnappers. “I’m going to—uhm, I’m gonna untie you. Okay?”

Your hands are shaking—she’s absolutely fine.

“First kidnapping?” She asks blithely, and you begin on the rope around her wrists.

“Yeah,” you laugh, picking at the knot with your nails, but it’s tight and you’re having trouble getting it loosened. “How can you tell?”

“You still haven’t taken the bag off my head,” she deadpans, and you freeze—looking up to see that she’s right, and the bag is still very much over her head. Reaching out to pull it free, you pause—just a moment, one second.

“Uhm, can you—I don’t know—keep it on?” You ask hopefully, hands covering hers in her lap. “He kind of—my scarf’s gone. And—.” You don’t get to finish, because she does.

“Super girl,” she’s positively gleeful, and you have to stumble back when she abruptly stands up and reaches up to pull the sack off her head. You scramble away, feeling way too ungraceful and luckily tuck yourself back out of the headlights. “At least something useful happened during this horrible excuse of a kidnapping.”

She’s beautiful—her cheeks are a little flushed, and her chest heaves just enough to catch your eyes. She’s smaller than you thought, which is impressive considering she was tied up in a chair prior to now. Eyes bright and glistening with the lights—blue, or maybe green. She steps forward, and you slink back just a little more—green, they’re definitely green.

Like the light at the end of Daisy’s dock.

“No need to scuttle away,” she’s saying, far too comfortable in her bindings—but you hear the police sirens, and know you only have a few moments left until you’re unable to leave unnoticed. The Captain probably won’t let this one slide.

“I, uhm, I have to go.” You say, standing up and taking one step back for every one she takes forward. “I’m glad you’re alright, Miss…”

“Grant. Cat Grant.” Said like you should know that, which you do—now that she mentions it. The proclaimed media royalty making court here in National City—your cousin knew her from her occasional drop-ins over at the Planet.

“Miss Grant.” You smile, and she smiles back even if you know she can’t see your face.

.

You spend the whole night watching youtube videos of Cat Grant’s television show.

.

You’re not _stalking_ her, but you’d think someone who had just been kidnapped would take her car service home—you see them sometimes pull up at the end of the day, but she sends them away with just a wave of the hand.

So you follow.

From the shadows, half a block behind her—ducking into the alleys whenever she glances over her shoulder. Scrambling up a brick face so that you can leap from low roof to low roof; close enough that you can step in if she needs you. Far enough that she can’t hear the ridiculous beat of your heart that you’re _positive_ will give you away.

.

It isn’t until the third night that she whispers, “thank you, super girl” when she reaches her building.

.

“You can say something, you know.” Cat Grant says from where she’s walking—it’s almost midnight and it’s almost warm enough that you don’t need a coat during the day, but at night? Night it’s still cold enough to see your breath.

You don’t say anything.

“Silence, okay, I can work with that.” You can only _barely_ hear her, but you know she’s talking to you.

And she talks. You learn about Gary, the art director she’s going to fire before some poor girl has to decide between her career and her respectability. You learn that she’s a sucker for Broadway show tunes, and Foreigner. You learn that she’s not a fan of ice coffee, and her last assistant lasted only an hour before she was fired—or quit, Cat isn’t really sure which happened first.

They might’ve been simultaneous.

.

She’s wearing a gown for some fundraiser—you’d sat across the street and watched wealthy people show up in their expensive cars, in their expensive clothes. There’s candles in the lobby, and lights whisked through the trees out front—it’s beautiful, and the music inside makes you smile. It’s wistful, and light, and makes your heart beat just a little faster if that’s possible.

You see her in a window on the second floor—holding a glass of champagne and peering out into the dark. Her dress is cream, and slit high enough at the thigh that you’re blushing under your scarf. Her hair is coiled in perfect ringlets and you just want to run your fingers through them. Mess them up a little, even if you want the image of her to live in your mind forever—

And then she sees you.

You know the exact second she sees you because she smiles—the slightest upturn of perfectly painted crimson lips. Fingers with rings worth more than you make in a year wiggle a little in a tiny wave.

.

Like a completely besotted idiot, you wave back.

.

You don’t expect her tonight, don’t expect to be doing much more than studying on a rooftop in the heart of National City—it’s nice out, the sky clear, the lights bright enough to see by.

But she does.

You almost miss the click of her heels, but she pauses and turns to look over your shoulder—you glance over just in time to watch her shrug her shawl a little higher on her shoulders. Shoving your textbooks into your bag, you sprint across the roof and roll over your shoulder onto the lower one.

Then another, and another, until you’re on solid ground.

She’s watching you with eye bright with just a hint of liquid courage, and you can only smile as she tips her chin slightly. She’s gorgeous, and you don’t think you can stop yourself from saying it.

“You look beautiful,” you wish you sounded _smooth_ , but your voice cracks from not talking for hours, which just makes her laugh.

Something close to a giggle?

“Weeks of one sided conversations and you break your silence for that?” She says, but she doesn’t look upset—quite the opposite. She preens just a little. “Perfect.”

.

When she shivers one too many times into her shawl, you shrug out of your jacket and place it on her shoulders—it almost fits her, and looks ridiculous over her thousand dollar cream gown, but she smiles. “Thank you.”

 You blush, tucking your chin into the scarf around your face.

.

You forget to ask for it back, and she forgets to give it back.

You don’t mind.

.

“You don’t have to walk home every night,” you say, hands in your pockets, walking through the almost-night that the spring is becoming. It’s not nearly late enough to warrant walking her home, but it’s become such a staple that you can’t help it. “Especially in those heels.”

You see sometimes that she winces with a step; you tell yourself you won’t show up the next night, that you won’t give her a reason.

But you worry—every night you’re even five minutes late, you worry that tonight might be the night something happens.

“I’m in a Fitbit competition,” she breezily says, waving her fingers like she’s wont to always do. “This has absolutely nothing to do with you, super girl.”

You frown, worrying for a second, before you see her grin.

.

“Maybe bring sneakers?” You ask as she walks up to her building. She glances over her shoulder once to watch you, and waves slightly with just the tips of her fingers.

“Maybe,” she agrees.

.

“Can you believe he said _I’m_ overreacting?” Cat says, throwing a hand out and you’re nearly smacked in the face—only quick reflexes keep you on your feet. Cat’s been angrier for the last few days, and hasn’t really talked much—it isn’t until tonight that you realize it’s because her son—Carter—is with his father.

A man you’ve never met, but thoroughly dislike.

Maybe even hate.

“ _He_ was supposed to pick Carter up form school, _he_ was supposed to make sure our son didn’t wait for an _hour_ before someone contacted me.” She’s getting angrier, and you can practically hear her teeth grinding—you know she does that when she’s annoyed, and you wonder what her dentist must say.

“Some people can’t admit they’re wrong,” you offer, having long since given up your lowered-voice. Shrugging a little, you step closer hoping that maybe you might give her a _little_ of the comfort she gives you.

You think of your aunt who still has a hard time seeing that what she’d done was _wrong_ , regardless of the reasons she’d done it. The ends seeming to always justify the means in her opinion.

“You look like you’re thinking of someone, and it’s not my idiotic ex-husband.” She’s looking at you like she’s preparing to be mad; you think it’s cute, but don’t have the courage to say that to her face. “Is it me?”

You can’t help laughing.

“No,” you say, wiping away a tear from laughing so hard; she’s scowling a bit, but it almost looks like a pout. “My aunt. She—she did something really bad, but she thinks her reasons were _noble_.”

“Were they?” She asks, looking down for just a moment at the patent leather black shoes she’s wearing. They still somehow match her dark suit with white piping.

“No.” You answer immediately, because it can’t be worth it—it’ll never seem worth it. Because you can only think of that man’s family—that _someone_ got a phone call in the middle of the night. That _someone_ had to tug on pants and go across the city to the morgue.

Someone had to hold back their tears just long enough to say, _yes, that’s him_.

.

When you aren’t walking Cat Grant home, you’re studying for finals—when you’re not studying for finals, you’re fighting petty crime on the bad side of town. You’ve gotten a bit of a reputation and you see super girl written like a proper noun for the first time in the National City Tribune— _Supergirl_ —which makes you smile.

“Your doing?” You ask her after it goes to print, turning the front page toward her so that she can see the grainy photo of you at the docks the other night. It’s flattering, even if you can’t see anything of your face.

“No idea what you’re talking about, Supergirl.” You can _hear_ the capital letter, and you can’t help smiling again.

.

You keep the paper in your sock drawer to fawn over every so often.

.

One night—in mid-summer—you almost die disarming a bomb in the middle of a _very_ populated park. The threat had been called in and the police hadn’t been able to find it— _tick tock_ , the timer was ticking down _somewhere_. The riddle posted in the personal ads almost impossible to decipher, until you figure it out.

_On a mount that never moves,_

_Stuck always in motion._

The statue of some revolutionary war general at the center of the park—his horse rearing up and his sword pointing outward—you see it while racing down the street. You’re close enough that it only takes you about a minute to reach it— _59, 58, 57, 56—_ the numbers count down, and your heart picks up.

 _55, 54, 53, 52_.

There isn’t enough time to make everyone leave, isn’t enough time to call in someone actually _qualified_ to do this. There’s so many colored wires, and a little black box connected to the explosive. It looks almost innocent to be as deadly as it is.

 _51, 50, 49, 48_.

You try not to think about how Alex might be woken up in the middle of the night to identify you, you try not to think about how Cat Grant will only know who you are after you’ve died. You’re counting up in your head— _hana, dul, set, net_.

You try not to think at all as you tug a wire.

.

You’re right—it’s the white wire.

.

“You absolute idiot!” Cat’s hands hit your chest when you step out of the shadows to walk her home that night—she’s flushed, and her hair is messy for the first time since she’d tugged a sack off her head months ago. She isn’t weak—hardly—but you take the beating.

Letting her hit you a few times before you curl your fingers around her fists.

“You could’ve been killed,” she’s saying it softer now, and you feel guilty—feel horrible really, and it’s an odd feeling to know you’re guilty for saving hundreds of people.

“Cat,” you say her name beseechingly. “I’m alright.”

“This time,” she hisses, tugging on her hand, but you keep them pinned to your chest—afraid she might start beating you again. She’s searching what little of your face she can see, and you feel even worse when her eyes get wet, and a single tear rebels down her cheek.

“No, no,” you say quickly, running a thumb across her cheek to catch the tear—it beads up on the pad of your finger. “None of that. I’m fine, I promise.” She’s watching you with a hunger you don’t have a name for—its abstract, and scalding, and you stammer a little to keep your own simmer low.

“You can’t keep that promise,” she says it like she’s realizing it as she says it.

“I can try,” you offer, frowning a little because you just want to smile. “I’m always going to try.”

Isn’t that enough?

But then you remember red, red pavement, and a missed snow storm, and the _bang_ of a gun.

.

Maybe nothing’s enough.

.

She doesn’t walk home the next four nights—you wait in your usual spot, textbook open but ignored in your lap. You eye the door until you realize there’s no one coming. You get home around midnight and can’t stop thinking.

You’re always thinking.

.

On the third night, you get so bold as to enter the lobby—the security guard has the nerve to look sympathetic when he sees your hooded and masked face. He gives you a pitying little smile and shakes his head.

“Left this afternoon in a town car,” he offers, so sad for you—all that’s missing is a pat on the shoulder.

Your shoulders slump as you nod and turn to walk right back out the doors.

.

You spend _far_ too much money on a bouquet of flowers, and spend far too long on what to write on the stupid little card. They’re bright, and colorful, and you know Cat loves lilies—they’re her favorite. The dark blue flowers makes you think of the night sky, and the emerald green ones—well, those pale in comparison to her eyes.

You almost write _I’m sorry_ , but stop yourself.

You can’t be sorry, you _can’t_ , because so many people were alive because you had a less than stellar worry for your own safety. You can’t regret it, which leaves you at a strange impasse.

.

“Sorry I’m not sorry?” You ask the florist, who looks at you like you’re an idiot.

“Do you want to be alone forever?” She asks, adjusting an arrangement that looks significantly more expensive than yours.

“No?”

“Then maybe don’t be an idiot.” You groan and thump your head on the counter; this is so much harder than class, so much harder than fighting crime.

“Why does everyone keep calling me an idiot?” You wonder out loud, glaring down at the small card.

.

Eventually, you write— _I’m sorry I made you worry._

.

“Who’s the girl?” Alex asks from the kitchen. You’re laying out on her couch, arms and legs hanging bonelessly to the floor. When you hear her, you perk up and glare—there’s creases from the pillow on your cheek.

“What girl? There’s no girl.” You quickly say, pushing your hair from sticking up and fixing your glasses—you’d run out of contact solution and had to wear them until Tuesday. “What makes you think there’s a girl? Because there isn’t…a girl…that is.”

Maybe you say it _too_ quickly.

“Believable,” she intones, pouring lettuce into a salad spinner that you don’t think she’s using properly—but that doesn’t stop her from viciously, and arduously spinning the vegetable.

“I know,” you agree, nodding firmly with you chin balanced on the back of her couch. “Because it’s true.”

“Mhm,” Alex’s is looking at you the same way Eliza used to when you said you had no idea what happened to the last few cookies in the jar. All raised eyebrows and cocked hips and you want to whine because this is _stupid_.

.

You make it to dessert.

“Cat,” you sigh, “her name’s Cat, and she’s beautiful, and smart, and out of my league.” You’re hopelessly wistful and you throw all your weight back until your chairs up on two legs and your head’s thumping back on the wall.

“What makes her out of your league?” No _I knew it_ , not from Alex.

“I don’t know, everything?” You sigh, closing your eyes and imagining Cat’s face—green eyes, bright smile, and just enough wit at every soft edge to be perfect. Absolutely perfect. “She’s got a career, and a son, and I’m just—I’m just _me_.” A college student with a penchant for fighting crime; a part-time barista at Starbucks, and a full-time idiot.

.

Late that night, when you’re full of food and half asleep on Alex’s couch, you feel her press a kiss to your forehead. “Anyone would be lucky to have you, Kara. Sweet dreams.”

Your sister’s kind of the best.

.

Cat walks home the night after the flowers are delivered. She’s wearing flats and doesn’t have her purse, but you’ve missed her more than you’re willing to admit. She does look at you when you saddle up beside her, but you know she knows you’re there.

“I really am sorry,” you say, breaking the silence, and she looks at you like she too might have missed you more than she’s willing to admit.

You wait for the anger, the snap and bite from when she’s telling you about some department head or another, but it never comes. She’s just—watching you, and you feel _seen_ for the first time. Really _seen_.

“I know,” she admits, smiling a little. “I wasn’t really mad, I was…”

She hesitates, and you smile in return.

“Worried.” You supply, stepping a little closer so that she had to look up just a little to see you. She grimaces like she doesn’t like admitting that she’s as caring as you know she is. Extending an arm, there’s only a moment before she loops hers through it. She’s still scowling at you a little, but you can tell she’s trying not to smile.

“I don’t want to hear that getting around,” she warns.

You grin. “I’m not the one with a newspaper at her disposal.”

.

“Are you ever going to tell me your name?” She asks. Its late summer, and you’re going into your final semester—four more classes and you’ll have your bachelors. You’ve gotten used to your routine—school, work, walk Cat home, fight crime—and you’re exhausted, but happy. It’s the strangest thing.

Cat’s looking at you like she might really need to know. It’s in the way she’s standing, hands bracketing her forearms as she blinks slowly. She’s not wearing her glasses, and she’s not wearing her sunglasses, and the green of her eyes leaves you a little dry in the mouth.

You want to tell her you’ll tell her anything—everything—but something inside you that’s always been a little afraid balks and shuts down.

“Do you need to know?” You ask hesitantly, tipping your chin in such a way that what little of your face can be seen is tossed absolutely into shadow. Tricks of the light. “If you ask, I’ll tell you.” And you’re scared to know it’s true.

She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the walk.

.

“You’ll tell me,” she decides when you reach her building. “When you’re ready, you’ll tell me.” And it’s like a reprieve, like something had finally been allowed to settle. Something fluttering and silly in your stomach.

“I will?” You ask, just a little playfully.

“Oh, Supergirl,” she exhales, fingers crawling carefully up your forearm until she can drag them up your bicep. You can’t stop the shiver—from the tips of your toes, to the top of your head. She leans in to whisper into your ear. “You will.”

You’re left struck stupid in her wake as she goes into her building.

.

**_SUPERGIRL SAVES P.S. 103 FIELDTRIP FROM DISASTER._ **

.

**_BANK ROBBERY STOPPED BY SUPERGIRL._ **

.

You keep each and every front page in the bottom drawer of your nightstand. Each one carefully folded and placed in safe keeping—you know Alex suspects, there’s no way she doesn’t, but she’s always kept your secrets. Even the ones she wasn’t supposed to know.

You think of telling her after the bomb, but you don’t. You think of telling her after the Mayor publically backs you, but you can’t. Your worlds are balanced perfectly, and you think maybe it’s supposed to be like this. That maybe at night you stop being Kara Danvers for just a little while, and you become Kara Zor-El. That little girl in Smallville that was waiting for a winter storm—that had hands red with her parent’s blood.

A little girl that grew up just a little cold inside because of it.

You don’t want Alex to be a part of that, a part of that piece of you that’s maybe just a little wrong, a little hard—a little _something_ that makes you seek out the chaos in the world.

So you never tell her; never explicitly, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t watch you with worry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so apparently i can't be trusted. what was supposed to be a one-shot, became a two-shot, and is now a three-shot. a little more kara backstory, a little more forward progression. i'm thinking of things as i write them, so i'm always like, "well, i guess there'll be a part three" when my brain comes up with a new idea of where to bring this. i hope ya'll don't mind!

Your aunt can’t leave Smallville because of her parole, so you go home.

She lives in what used to be your parent’s house—what used to be _your_ house—and when you’re walking up the front lawn you realize you’ve forgotten what color station wagon your father owned, or what types of flowers your mother would plant.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she says when she opens the front door for you—the screen rattles when it slams shut. Everything inside looks unchanged—there’s pictures on the walls, and you know the photo albums are tucked away underneath the old records your father loved.

“Hm,” you hum, not really listening because this is the first time you’ve been back _here_ —the first time you’ve seen that the carpet is still shag, and the walls are still paneled.

“Kara?” She says, and you turn to see her—really see her—and you can’t believe this is the same woman who seemed so much larger than life when you were younger. She had been bright, and brash, and wonderful—and then she was gone.

“I feel bad, sometimes,” you say, pursing your lips as you run fingers over the dark gold mantel underneath the obscenely large portrait of Moses. You remember that your chore was vacuuming the felt picture because it always attracted dust. “I’ve never lit a candle for them.”

You’d been sad, and then angry, and then it was like so much time had passed it felt _disingenuous_ to start. Like it didn’t matter because you’d waited twelve years to wonder if they needed a little light to find their way.

“I think they’d understand,” she’s quieter than you expect, even now—her eyes a little more gray than green, a little more mute than bright. You want to ask her things, want to share with her like you did when you were younger—when you’d had everything, and she’d been part of that.

“I didn’t even have a bat mitzvah,” your cousin had had his the year before they were…—before _they passed_ , and you remember how the Kents had scrambled and tried so hard to learn everything necessary for Kal-El’s bar mitzvah. It had been tropical, and you’d eaten seven cupcakes before your mother had found you behind the stage’s curtains.

The Kents had raised Kal-El like his parents would have—they were fantastic people who had loved Jor-El and Lara like their own; your aunt and uncle had been really very young—much too young when they died in that car crash.

You realize you’re older now than they ever were.

“Do you want one? I can…” Astra pauses, and it takes you a moment to look at her—a moment to realize she’s trying. Really _trying_. “It’s still Rabbi Santiago down at the _shul_ on De Marco.” She looks—she looks like your aunt, suddenly. Like the woman who’d wait patiently for you to read whatever assignment you’d had that night for homework.

“I’m too old,” you protest, a little chagrin.

“You’re never too old,” she returns, smiling a little, and you want to believe her. Want to reclaim that small piece of you that seemed impossible to hold for all these years—pieces you had abandoned because you felt like they hadn’t fit in your new life. With Christmas, and Easter, and—and—

You loved all that. Loved celebrating with the Danvers, loved that it hadn’t even felt _wrong_ to be included—but it was different.

You smile. Just a little. “I’d like that.”

.

“You were always Rabbi Santiago’s favorite, after all.” Astra can’t cook—that hasn’t changed—so she orders pizza and remembers that you like yours doused in ranch dressing.

“I wasn’t his favorite,” you deny around a mouthful of pizza. This feels good—it feels alright. It feels like you’re taking back all the things lost to dust and tainted by disuse.

“Mhm,” she snort—actually snorts—and you laugh. “Sure. Tell that to his Shine ‘o Kara. How many _best student_ awards in a row did you have?”

You’re home—and it has little to do with a place.

.

Your mother planted marigolds.

And your father’s car was red.

.

“So, I know we’re not doing names, and that’s all well and good.” You’re sitting on the top of a fence beside Cat and it isn’t the end of the day—its lunch and you’re probably an idiot. “But I refuse to call you Supergirl in conversation.”

It’s sunny out, and you bask in the light—even if you are wearing a storm collar up to the tip of your nose, and a hood that flops a little more than it should. Cat’s being a good sport about it, and something in your chest blusters with affection—this beautiful, brilliant and accomplished woman who won’t look because she promised to wait.

“That’d sound weird,” you agree, popping a piece of your pretzel into your mouth with just a little too much cheese. Cat’s sitting on a bench five feet below you, and she’s watching the water—completely engrossed. You eye the disgusting pile of greens that’s supposed to be her lunch.

“El,” you say, chewing. “You can call me El.”

“El.” She glances, but you’re looking out at the water too, and it’s beautiful—glistening, and wide, and something that still makes you feel small. “I like it.”

You smile.

“So, El,” she begins, eating a little bit of her salad and just—watching the water. Sitting with you. “Tell me something about yourself.”

You balk—just a little—and you can’t think of anything for a while. “My favorite color is green?” You say, though it’s more of a question.

“Not good enough,” she imposes a stipulation. “Something you wouldn’t tell just _anyone_.” And it’s the truth—Cat Grant isn’t _just anyone_ to you. She’s—she’s who you think about when you walk through the grocery store and see some obscure produce she _loathes_ on principle. Or when you see a movie trailer and remember she’s taking Carter to see it on opening night.

“I’m obsessed with Kickstarter,” you say, and grimace, because that doesn’t seem very soul deep at all. But you steamroll forward; hoping a tidal wave of words will mask you utterly lame confession. Cat raises an eyebrow as you elaborate. “No, seriously, I have a problem. People send me links, and it—it’s a compulsion, or something.”

Pulling up your sleeve a little, you stick out your wrist—which has an absurdly large watch that you’d bought last summer and received last month. “This was stupidly expensive.”

Cat actually reaches out to grasp your wrist and your heart _stops_. Her palms are soft, and she scratches the tender side of you wrist just a little with her nail as she examines it—you’re shivering, and _maybe_ make a little noise. Just enough of one to turn those bright sun-filled green eyes toward you.

“It’s a nice watch,” she coolly says, softly, and you _know_ that second scratch is intentional—doesn’t stop the shiver that trills down your spine. 

“It’s, uhm, it’s cool.” You stammer, leaning forward a little too much, and she’s smirking—finger trailing—

“Hey!” The security guard that you’ve successfully avoided twice has finally seen you sitting up on the top of the fence, which makes you squawk and fall backward into the bushes. “Get down from there!”

Scrambling through the foliage, you’ll never forget the sound of Cat’s laughter.

.

Bell chimes, like you expect—except she snorts. Just a little.

That’s probably your favorite part.

.

In the breakroom at work, the television’s on low enough that you can _just_ make out what’s being said. One of your co-workers is complaining because you swiped the remote to change the channel to something that usually wouldn’t warrant remote theft.

It’s one of those political crossfire shows—forty-something minutes of arguing, until one side is declared the winner. You usually don’t even bother, but this time Cat’s on it. Sharp dark blue suit, cream shirt, and heels that you can’t get out of your mind—you could live in a fantasy of her flexing calves for _forever_.

She’d been practicing against you the past two days, everything she _hoped_ they would bring up so that she could utterly humiliate them. “Have those misogynistic luddites tuck tail from the White House,” you think were her words.

“Ho boy, you’re really…,” the voice is soft, trailing, and just a little nervous. “…like, _really_ invested in political correspondence.”

Dragging your eyes away from Cat—and those legs—you look at your co-worker. Nice smile, kind eyes—Winn was a few years older than you and still trying to get his _forever job_ —a phrase that makes you cringe—with his bachelors. He’d obviously settled for an assistant manager job at Starbucks at some point.

“Being informed is important,” you say absently, turning back to watch how Cat smirks and says something that throws the anchor’s entire point off. She’s done something with her hair that’s amazing, but you like her natural curls better.

“This is actually a little crazy,” he says, sitting down in his chair and unwrapping his sun-butter sandwich—the lunch he brings in every day. “I have an interview at CatCo at the end of the week.”

“Really?” You ask, tucking your brow a little. “You’re leaving us?”

“Nope,” he pops, swallowing his bite of sandwich. “They’re right down the street—you can’t miss it. I’ll come visit all the time. I have to keep replacing the sheet for my roommate search.” He shoves a thumb aimlessly over his shoulder—but you know what he means.

He’s been looking for a roommate for almost two months—his last one literally ran away to join the circus, which you assumed was hyperbole until you saw pictures of the clown in question. The little strips at the bottom with his phone number get ripped off, but he swears no one’s called.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” you start, turning to watch him for a second, and he’s listening—Winn’s a good listener. “Since you’re not going to be my boss anymore—maybe I can be your roommate?”

.

Winn absolutely aces his interview.

.

You move in two weeks later.

.

You wonder if trouble follows you, or if you just really have that kind of luck.

You wonder if this is a timeline dictated by choices you’ve made—some twisting scape of every decision you’ve made since that moment in Smallville. If you hadn’t done _this_ , then _this_ wouldn’t have happened—if you’d gone right instead of left, _this_ would have happened.

There’s a million and one possibilities, and you’re really considering them one day when waiting for the police. There’s a robber tied up on the ground—he’d sprinted out of a gas station with a bag jingling with coins and enough cash to almost make it worth it.

“Did you ever wonder if maybe we’re, like—I don’t know—playing in some game?” You ask him, sitting on a railing and keeping one foot leveraged to launch you forward if he decides to try running for it. “Characters in a story?”

“What?” He asks.

“I don’t know,” you say, lamenting when life seemed easier. “I’m taking philosophy for a humanities credit, and—I don’t know—it’s really making me think.” Tucking your hands into your sweatshirt pockets. “I mean, what’re the chances that I’m just walking by when you’re flipping the joint.”

“Flipping? What kind of 1804 bullshit’s that?” He says, struggling to sit on the curb instead of lying there. “What; you trying to tell me this is all _destined_? Oh hell no. Take that shit back.”

“I’m just saying…—,” you try.

“Lem’me lay this down for you, Home Grown. If it wasn’t my gas station, it would’a been one of the other twelve bein’ robbed right now.” He scoffs, shrugging shoulders. “Statistics’re a bitch, lil’ miss.”

“No, come on,” you try, hopping down to pat him on the shoulder. “You’re not a statistic. I promise.”

He smiles. “That means a lot to me.”

 _You_ smile. “When you don’t have a weapon, you’re really pretty nice.”

“Nice enough to let me go?”

“Oh, no. You’re going to prison; robbing someone’s really kind of rude.”

.

You’re not even trying anymore.

You have a hood up, but that’s really it—you’re not seeing Cat as _Supergirl_ , which is weird, because it seems like it shouldn’t be possible. You’re seeing her as _El_. Some version of yourself that is—and isn’t—completely accurate. It’s you if you don’t have to smile at customers that really aren’t very nice—it’s you if you don’t have to nod and accept your TA _mansplaining_ something before class.

It’s a version of you that exists on tournament mats—a centered, determined, and focused version of you. The piece of you that _sabomnim_ Prince says is your _inner you_ ; some piece of the spirit that’s wispy and bright, and lives in the deep of your chest.

Cat hasn’t said anything yet, but you’re okay waiting—walking close enough that you brush her hand with yours every sixth or seventh stride. You know she’s had one or two to drink. She’s wearing heels—taller than tall—and she’s swaying just enough that you’re waiting for her to stumble.

But she never does.

“My mother came to visit today,” she drawls—words wet and heavy, and you glance over to see how she’s absently rubbing her forearm. How she’s looking everywhere, but at you. “Lauding me with all the grand things she’s doing.” You hear something you’re not used to hearing from Cat—it’s a stilting uncertainty that sounds _wrong_ …

You’re opening your mouth to say something— _anything_ —but she goes on.

“You’d think I was used to it. That I wouldn’t expect something even encroaching on decent when she swoops in like the crypt keeper.” There’s a hand jabbing aimlessly, sweeping to the side as if she’s pushing something away. Your hand brushes hers again, and you can’t help curling your pinky around hers—it’s loose and she absolutely can pull away, but—but—she doesn’t.

She doesn’t.

“I don’t—I don’t know her, but—…” Her pinky squeezes yours, and her ring finger is curling around yours—she’s basically holding your hand, but she still won’t look at you. “…—but, you’re kind of the best person I know.” You’ve stopped walking and you’re tugging her to a stop—she’s looking at you with eyes that _maybe_ are glassy, and you smile.

She’s beautiful—God, she’s beautiful. Even when the winds snagging her hair, and her eyes are a little red. She’s beautiful, and it’s nothing to do with her green eyes, or her full lips, or a jawline you could cut your fingertip on.

“And anyone who doesn’t see that,” you continue—she’s still holding your hand, she’s still beautiful. “Well, they’re obviously delusional.”

“Walking me home doesn’t mean you know me,” she protests—but she’s still holding your hand—and you step a little closer. “This is just a few minutes out of the day.” She’s gearing up to change your mind—you can see it in how her shoulders square, how her lips press together.

“I know you’re smart,” you begin. “I know you’re funny—even when you’re not trying to be. I know you love Carter more than anything…—,” she looks like she’s about to interject. “…— _anything_.”

Blinking, she flares her nostrils, but she’s holding her breath.

“I know you’re brave—that you kept your head during a _kidnapping_. I mean _I_ was freaking out.” One step more, just one step, and she’s looking up a little at your face—and you don’t feel like hiding anymore. Maybe you’re drowning in bright feeling, something smothering and tasting of _shine_. “I know that you haven’t even _tried_ to find out who I am, because you promised to wait for me.”

She’s still holding your hand, her thumb rubbing across your knuckles, and you smile—God, how were you such an idiot?

“El…” She says, brows furrowing just a little.

“Kara,” you say, “My name’s Kara.”

Cat’s looking at you like you know you look at her—eyes just a little wide, hints of amazement, and it makes everything flutter and clench in your stomach. Makes your bones vibrate. _She’s_ stepping closer, and it doesn’t seem like it’s that big of a deal when you shove your hood off—the wind catches your hair and you have to paw your blonde mess down.

Or you go to, but Cat’s already there—tucking curls behind your ears. Your fingertips makes you shiver, her nails making you gasp—you’re caught by her eyes and you really don’t wish to escape.

“Kara,” she says, and you’ve never been particularly partial to your name, but you suddenly _love_ it. Because she says it like how she whispered _you will_ in your ear months ago. “I don’t want this to be some decision made because you don’t like sad girls.” You blink, because you hadn’t even thought of it that way.

It just seemed right.

“No,” you say, “I’m going to get you ice cream because I don’t like sad girls.” You’re one step closer—you feel the warmth of her breath against your lips, but you don’t lean forward. The hand that isn’t curled through yours is pressed against your chest and you _know_ you can sweep her into your arms.

“All this?” You clear your throat, smiling shyly—which is silly because she’s still holding your hand. “All this is because I kind of think you’re great.”

You’d steal the moon for just a moment of Cat’s laughter.

.

“Froyo isn’t ice cream,” you protest, “I refuse.”

“ _This_ is where you draw the line?”

“Absolutely! Principles matter!” You shake your head, “we’re getting _ice cream_.”

.

She’s on her doorstep—you’re watching her climb them—and you feel giddy when she turns around.

“You’re pretty great yourself.”

.

“Alexandra says there’s a girl.”

“Astra,” you groan, thumping your head back against the pillow on the coach—your Hebrew isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Your syllables drawl a little too much, and sometimes it feels like you’re doing a New York Times caricature when you have a little too much _chutzpah_.

You don’t know how you feel about your aunt talking to your sister—they _clicked_ , which is how Alex put it after you’d let her visit with you a few times.

Your laptop’s on the coffee table, and Winn’s singing in the kitchen, and _now_ isn’t the time. You don’t go to Smallville very often, but you skype Astra a few times a week. Mostly practicing your Hebrew, and seeing what’s new in your home town—there’s a new cinema, and the Farmer’s Market happens _two_ times a week now.

“There isn’t a girl,” you let your prayer book smack your face as you dramatically splay your limbs. “I mean, okay, yeah—there’s a girl. But not how you’re implying.” You’re surprised she can make out what you’re saying with how the book muffles your words.

“What am I implying?” Your aunt asks, _too casually_ , and you grunt in response. “I’m just making conversation, Little One. Just wished to ask after this girl. No implications.”

“You _so_ _are_ implying,” dragging to book down, you lull your head to the side and stare at the laptop screen. Astra is trying her hardest to look absolutely innocent, and you frown. “This _girl_ —who is a woman, thank you very much—is my friend, who is—you know—friendly.”

“Friendly, oh?”

“Stop it!” You accuse, sitting up quickly, jabbing a finger in her direction. “Don’t _oh_. There’s nothing to _oh_! Like I told Alex—she’s my friend. Do you guys have nothing else to talk about than my love life?” Alex has become like a bloodhound on the trail—shoving Facebook profiles in your face with a _is this her_ , and you’ve even missed two dumpling Thursdays to avoid it.

Luckily, you don’t think Cat even _has_ a Facebook.

“Do you really want to know what Alexandra and I talk about other than your _love life_?” You groan, louder, because you don’t even want to think about it—Alex has weird heart eyes for your aunt, and it’s weird, and you’re not against it. But it’s _weird_.

You sigh.

“Her name’s Cat…—,” you begin—only to realize you’ve ruined everything.

Like the idiot who opened the gate for the Trojan’s horse.

“—Grant? We watching more Youtube videos?” Winn finishes for you, and everything would have been absolutely fine if you just laughed and told him that _obviously_ your Cat wasn’t _Cat Grant_ , because that would have fixed everything. It would have been fine.

No—what you do is freeze and stop talking long enough for Astra to catch on.

“Cat Grant,” she begins— _slowly._ “The famous woman with the television show?”

“That hasn’t been on the air in years,” Winn chimes in, eating his stir fry absently. “Though she owns, like, four television channels.”

You’re trying to dissolve into nothing.

“How diverse,” Astra hums, though she hasn’t looked away from you.

“Got to go! Real busy! Is that the doorbell?! Bye Astra!” You slam the laptop shut and glare at it like somehow that will reverse time—if only you could do that.

“Was it something I said?” Winn asks.

.

“There must be _something_ that’s brought you back to Midvale.” _Sabomnim_ Prince asks while trying to take your head off your shoulders—you’ll never be as graceful as she is, never as sure and absolute—but you’re quick. Rolling under the wheel kick, you pop back up to your feet and bounce.

“Maybe I just missed you.” You say, curving a punch away from you with a directing hand—directing her past you. Spinning around, you try to roundhouse kick her in the side—but she easily hooks your calf and whips you into a grapple. You grunt when her arm bars across your throat and locks you into place.

“Missed getting your behind handed to you?” You can’t see her face where it’s tucked into your shoulder, but you know she’s smiling. You’re not holding your breath, but letting it out slowly—evenly—until you can curve your ankle around hers and lift her over your shoulder.

She doesn’t make a _sound_ as she sails over your shoulder and toward the mat.

 _Of course_ she lands on her feet.

You’re red, and breathing hard, and sweating profusely—and _sabomnim_ Prince looks like she’s only just stepped outside for a walk. Dark hair neat, dark eyes bright—she’s grinning at you, and you can only hope you age half as gracefully. “I have a competition coming up, and all the noodles at my new _dojang_ aren’t much help.”

“WTF or ITF?” She asks, stepping around you to your right.

“WTF,” you rush her—ducking below her hook kick and popping up with a very regulation axe kick—your heel stopping right before it would have made contact. No pads. _Sabomnim_ Prince laughs and shoves your foot away. Catching yourself on both of your feet, you exhale—straightening your _dobok_ and reaching down to grab your bottle of water.

“Everything’s just—going fast.” You finally relent, exhaling and sitting down on the floor. “Not bad fast, just—fast.”

“Is it this girl—,” she starts.

“Did Alex ask _everyone_ in my life if they knew something?” You flop backwards, and _sabomnim_ Prince just laughs—melodic and soft, like she wasn’t a _yuk dan_ black belt, and could probably kill a man with just her toes.

“Of course she did,” she laughs, resting her hand on your ankle and rubbing it affectionately. “Your sister’s a fixer, Kara. She didn’t know how to help you, but she was determined to find a solution.”

“There’s nothing to _fix_ ,” you insist, staring up at the ceiling.

“Did you tell her that?” She asks, eyebrow cocking.

“Yes!” You say quickly, but something makes you pause—and sigh. A long _suffering_ sigh. Rolling onto your stomach, you put your chin on your forearms. “Okay, no, but I told her it was nothing!” If _nothing_ could be measured in life changing feelings. Gallons of _something_ in your chest, that flutter, and swell, and infuse into every part of you.

 _Sabomnim_ Prince smiles, patting you on the head as she gets up—you can hear her knees crack, but it doesn’t seem to bother her any. “She wants you to be happy, Kara. Doesn’t matter if you’re ten and need her to wait in the lobby during class, or you twenty-two and need help asking out a girl.”

.

Alex _is_ kind of awesome.

.

“Any reason we’re adorning the hood?” Cat asks, eyebrow raised.

It’s been two weeks since her mother visited, two weeks since you bothered trying to hide your face—but tonight’s different.

“You know,” you try, “just bringing back all the faves. I just love how I rock a hood.” Double thumbs up. Her build is only a block or two away, and you’re really surprised you made it this far without her pulling it off your head. You think she’s still really respecting your boundaries, which is sweet, and makes you feel _guilty_.

“Mhm,” she hums, and you imagine if she was even _slightly_ less classy than she is, she would suck her tooth at you.

“I look badass?”

Cat nods and keeps watching, looking away from you and pulling out her mobile phone. She taps something and the blue light splashes up and against her cheeks. She’s _ignoring_ you, and you try to tell yourself that it isn’t going to work—but it really is.

“Okay, fine, fine.” You relent, throwing your hands up, but you wince noticeably, and Cat presses a hand against your collarbone. Pulling back your hood, you let her see the mess that is your face right now—a black eye, a split lip. Five stiches in your cheek where you’d been smacked with a bottle—you’d put all five of the guys on the ground—and put them there hard—but you hadn’t walked away as untouched as usual.

“My God,” she whispers, reaching up to brush a finger against your bruised cheek, and you think it should hurt—but it’s still a little tight, and a little numb. “Kara, what happened?” Her fingertips are softly trailing over the fingermarks on your throat, and you have to stammer a few times before you can talk.

“Bar fight,” you eventually get out. “Trashing the place, they were—uhm, kind of good fighters?” Cat unzips your sweatshirt like it’s _nothing_ , and your heart is jumping in your throat. She’s searching the odd protrusion of your collarbone, and she’s hissing under her breath.

“Does this happen a lot?” You can tell she wants to tell you to stop, that you can’t promise to always be safe—but she’s stopping herself. She’s clenching her jaw and breathing through her nose. You catch her hands in yours, keep them pressed into you like you had after the bomb.

“No,” you say truthfully. “It really doesn’t—Cat, I promise. It doesn’t.” You’re smiling, keeping her soft warm hands underneath yours, and she smiles back—it takes a bit, but she does. She’s brushing your forehead, where a pretty considerable knot is forming—your hairline looks a little stupid right now, but the internet says it should go down in a day or two.

“Is someone checking on you every hour for that concussion?” She asks, and you lull out of the daze of having Cat smooth fingers across your forehead.

“I, uhm, I have an alarm set.” Mistake. You realize it the _moment_ those eyes snap up to meet yours. You see that gurgling _something_ that’s probably the reason Winn cries sometimes in the night. That dark little blip of emotion that lingers in places Cat doesn’t usually show you.

“No, that will not do.” She says, and you’re walking again—well, she’s walking and you’re trailing. Her fingers aren’t looped through yours anymore, but she has the hem of your sweatshirt in her grip, and you really don’t have much of a choice. Well, you do, but anything _other_ than following Cat seems stupid. “You could be _dead_ in the morning. Someone needs to check on you every hour.”

“I like my roommate, but I don’t want to bother him.” And you’ve kind of been avoiding him and Alex, with surprising success.

“Fine,” good, she’s seeing reason. “You’ll stay with me tonight.”

.

What is this, fanfiction? You will not fall for this type of meet-cute nonsense…

.

You stay the night.

.

Cat’s making spaghetti, and you’re sitting at the kitchen table—her apartment ( _penthouse_ ) is ridiculously large, but it looks lived in. You were half expecting something that looked like it came out of an episode of Cribs, or from some Martha Stewart magazine. But it’s—actually kind of normal. The living room is large, but there’s section that clearly are used for something—there’s a table you would have _killed_ for during your Dungeons  & Dragons phase.

(You say phase like you still don’t play every Wednesday with Winn.)

“I could be a murderer,” you yell, sipping from your glass of water. Cat looks over her shoulder and you smile a little at her glasses—you’ve seen her in frames before, but these aren’t the slick and stylish ones she wears at the office. No, they’re a little clunky, and a bit crooked on one side, and you wonder how many times she’s fallen asleep in them.

“What’re the chances that we’re both murderers?” She asks, turning back to stir the sauce; and you cough on your water a little, which makes you groan and wince. Your ribs are _smarting_ , but you’re glad they aren’t broken.

“Cat,” you whine, and she’s at your side in a moment—smoothing your hair back, and you wonder if she’s always been so tactile and you just didn’t notice. She’s looking down at you, and you kind of like it—her lips are paler than usual, but glossy with chapstick. “You’re really pretty.” You breathe out, and she smiles—soft, almost shy—and you know this is someone you’d do almost anything for.

“You’re not a murderer, you’re a flatterer.” She says, cheeks a little colored.

“That was corny,” you intone while leaning into her hand—she’s scratching at your scalp, and it’s taking everything in you to not close your eyes and purr. “I didn’t think Cat Grant was corny.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” her voice cracks, just a little, and she’s leaning closer—your mouth opens and you can’t stop looking down at her lips. How plump her bottom lips look, how her upper lip bows perfectly.

“Like?” You breathe, chest rising and falling heavily.

Cat’s leaning down, and everything about her say she’s about to kiss you—the scratch behind your ear, the knee nudging yours as she moves closer. Tipping your head back a little more, your hand settles naturally at the curve of her waist.

You can feel her breath on your lips, the tip of her nose against yours—

“Mom!” The front door slams and you both jump back—Cat nearly into the kitchen, and you into the table. You curse under your breath and hiss loudly, clutching at your side because you definitely jostled something that didn’t want jostling.

“I-In here, Carter.” Cat calls, and she’s flushed—cheeks red, hand pressing against her chest. She’s licking her lips, and you can think about how _you_ almost got to taste those lips.

“Hey, Mom.” The voice is young, and you turn to see a boy—ten or eleven, with bright eyes. His mother’s eyes—intent, if not color—and a mess of curling dark hair. “Dad dropped me off a day early because he needs to leave.” You _know_ Cat loves those days—even if she hates how unpredictable her ex is—but she loves having Carter, no matter the reason.

“I missed you so much, sweetheart.” She’s stepping forward to kiss Carter’s head, and he’s finally turning enough to see you—busted up, sweating profusely you.

“Who’re you?” He asks, eyes narrowing. It isn’t rude, but you’re absolutely smitten the way his little body steps in front of his mother. Protective, you love that.

“I, uhm, I’m a friend of your mother.” Cue stupid little wave—maybe you’re a Grant whisperer, because Carter cracks a smile. “I'm Kara. I’ve heard a lot about you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the finale! months later. little open ended, but it's finished for now. i hope you guise liked. no beta, all mistakes mine, stream-of-consciousness. again, this was for **@ckdhaven**. hope you enjoyed, buddy ~

Carter’s adorable.

You’ve only ever seen him in passing, and you’d been absolutely fine with that—it felt like a piece of Cat’s life that didn’t involve you. Her _actual_ life, as you always call it in your head.

He’s bright, and shy, and his smile makes you feel like you’ve won some contest—a happy little flip of happiness when he grins before ducking down the hall to his bedroom.

When you turn back, Cat’s watching you with something like fondness in her eyes, and your stomach flips for an entirely different reason.

Maybe it’s how her toes curl into the carpet when she walks—maybe it’s that everything she’s wearing look impossibly soft and you want to know just _how_ soft.

She’s leaning back against the kitchen island, with her arms loosely curled across her stomach—your stomach does another little flip, and you smile. Your cheeks ache a little, and your eye throbs just a hint.

“He’s cute,” you say, for wont of something to break this silence—trying very hard not to think about the warmth of her breath, or the way she’d bumped your nose with hers. You try not to think about how you want to pull those absolutely adorable glasses from her face and curl fingers into hair that’s still—somehow—perfectly coifed.

“The cutest,” she agrees, eyebrow raising.

“He looks like you,” you’re not _stumbling_ , but there’s a breathlessness in the words that has absolutely nothing to do with bruised ribs.

“Because he’s cute?”

You squawk—a sound that you _wish_ wasn’t knee-jerk—and your eyes widen, ready to fold over your words and try to align them in a way that didn’t make your face red. But Cat’s just smiling at you, absolutely fine with it, and you’re—oddly fine with it too.

So you just smile.

“So,” Carter’s voice surprises you again, and you wonder how often Cat’s almost had a heart attack—he’s only been home for five minutes, and you’re two in the hole. Cat just lulls her head to the side to watch Carter pull out a bottle of water and lean over the pot of sauce on the stove.

She looks at him in a way that makes your heart _long_ —it’s how your mother used to look at you, how Astra _still_ looks at you—it’s unconditional, and warm, and everything good in the world.

“Mom doesn’t usually bring friends home,” he says this with all that Grant wryness, though it’s a little hard to find in the sweetness of his face.

“I have friends,” Cat responds impishly, lips pursed as she cards fingers through his rather messy curls. “A litany of friends—a surplus of friends, if you will.”

“Mhm,” _there’s_ that Grant-brand placation as he pats her hand. “I know, mom, so many friends.”

They’re grinning, and everything inside you does strange acrobatic things because this is a _family_ —two people, utterly comfortable, and just…just _happy_. Your family is stretched, and crumpled, and burned through in places, but it’s also strong, and warm, and absolutely right too. Clark, and Astra, and Alex, and the Danvers.

“I, uhm, I hit my head,” pointing to the bruise on your forehead, right above the stitches on your brow, and Carter’s face instantly curls with worry. “And your mom—being totally awesome—said she’d look after me and, you know, make sure I don’t die in my sleep.” You smile to show him you’re joking—you _are_ joking, hopefully—and he seems to accept it.

“Do you work at CatCo?” He asks, always looking for answers.

“She’s freelance,” Cat supplies easily enough, eyebrow plucked high. “She got a bit—overzealous with her last endeavor into truth, justice, and the American way.”

“If I won’t, who will?” You ask, a little stubborn— _a lot_ enamored.

Carter snorts, “I guess I see why you’re friends.” All the while ducking out of the kitchen and away from his mother’s indignant _hey_ , and your laugh.

“He’s cute,” you say again, because you’re smiling like an idiot and it’s making your cheeks hurt.

But Cat only smiles, softer and smaller than her usual. It’s nice. “The cutest,” she agrees again.

.

“Kara,” Carter says in tones that _has_ to be genetic. “It’s food, not foundation.”

You blink.

Cat laughs as she wipes sauce off your cheek.

.

There’s something about watching re-runs of _I Love Lucy_ at two in the morning that brings everyone back—to some specific time in their life. You remember winter nights when everyone seemed to go to sleep just a little earlier—chilly nights with too many blankets and the window cracked just a little. You remember the stiff breeze across your cheeks and how you would bury yourself in fleece and cotton.

“Your mother would be _livid_ if she knew you were still up,” your father would say from the doorway—still in his work clothes, rumpled and tired, and trying to hide the pint of ice-cream he’d lifted from the fridge.

“I’m in bed,” you’d reply, muffled and quiet, because you _didn’t_ want your mother getting up. Your father always looked younger in the dark—his hair darker, his eyes brighter in the black-and-white glow of the television.

“You’re a sneaky little thing,” he’d say, smiling wide and clicking your bedroom door closed behind him. Slipping off slippers that hid his unmatching socks, you’d offer some of your hard-won blankets until you were huddled against his side. “What’re we watching?” He’d ask while watching the almost silent commercials flicker and flash.

“Lucy,” you’d murmur, nose twitching from the hair blowing across your face from the breeze coming through the window.

“Perfect.”

.

It’s different watching _I Love Lucy_ here, because it isn’t just… _on_ —no, you have to click on some ridiculously inclusive subscription service, and then you pick an episode. _Pick_. It’s not how you’re used to watching it, so you close your eyes and blindly scroll through episodes until you click. The title card is constructed and the opening music swells—there’s name you recognize, and those you don’t, but there’s a comfort that sinks into your muscles.

You don’t know what time it is, Cat’s living room is devoid of clocks on the walls and you can’t convince yourself to get up and look at the blinking numbers on the stove. You have no blankets, but you have a throw pillow clutched on your lap and your mobile phone is sitting screen down on the couch arm.

Cat had directed you to a guest room earlier and let you borrow pajamas—you’d managed to _not_ press them to your nose to see if they smelled like Cat’s detergent—or more so, her perfume. You’d listened to the _tick, tick, tick_ of the watch on your wrist for about twenty minutes before you got up to situate yourself on the living room couch.

The air’s cool and flat—no balm, no life—and you watch the blue glow against pale walls as the screen flickers—you could color-code your childhood into midnight shades of blue. The burning black and white gone prismatic against the backs of your eyelids as you tried to make everything in your head go quite so that you could fall asleep.

The volume hovers just two ticks above silent, and you watch the dance of familiar bodies through sets you could recreate from memory alone—Lucy’s listening to the radio, intent and focused, her eyes widening and her mouth agape.

You don’t know how long you sit there, half in the past with Lucy as your guide.

Probably too long.

“Imagine my surprise,” comes a raspy voice, you glance to the doorway of the kitchen and find Cat—she’s wrapped up in a robe that’s _barely_ a robe to begin with and your mouth goes just a little dry. “When I wake up to wake _you_ up, and you’re _already_ up.” It’s a curling sentence, and by the end of it she’s pursing her lips a little and you think she looks beautiful like that.

Who are you kidding? You think she looks beautiful always.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say, smiling through the ache in your cheeks and the throb in your blackened eye. The synthetic blue washes across her cheeks and into her messy blonde hair, and you think she’s made for midnight blues—for the quiet stretch of forevers that happens between midnight and the break of dawn.

“Headache?” She asks, walking closer on silent toes, and you smother a smile because Cat Grant—media royalty—walks on the tips of her toes when barefoot. Years of conditioning of walking in heels, no doubt—but it’s adorable, and you know you’ll never say anything because it would break your heart to never see it again.

And it takes you a moment to realize you’re imagining being here again—midnight in Cat’s apartment, _I Love Lucy_ playing silently in the background. It’s a fantasy that seems too close to reality for you to consider—it’s not five celebrities on a list, or winning the lotto.

It isn’t until you feel the warmth of Cat’s hand on your shoulder that you realize you haven’t responded—you’ve been staring, and smiling, and she’s looking down at you like she might be wondering about another midnight like this too.

“No headache,” you say, leaning your head back completely to look up at her, and she raises a brow. _Pop_ and you’re shrugging sheepishly. “Okay, maybe a little bit of a headache, but it’s nothing. It’s, like, more of a general face ache.”

Hand raised to gesture to the vicinity of your face, and by association, the aforementioned ache. Cat’s smiling down at you with the placating expression that makes your chest tight and your palms sweat and you just smile up at her—an idiot, sure, but an idiot in some unnamed _something_.

“Alright, I’ll accept face-ache.” Fingers ghost across the tops of your shoulders and through your hair that has since fallen over the back of the couch. You watch her slice through the blue-black dark and settle on the other side of the couch—robe parting and exposing so much skin you feel the need to avert your eyes…

(You don’t)

…and she’s lifting a blanket out of a basket that you hadn’t noticed. Placing it over her lap and legs, and covering most of your own legs—that _something_ expands, and swells, and trickles into so much more of you, but you can only think of how she’s watching you. Green eyes gone gray in the wash of the television, lips quirked as equally as her brows.

There’s the warm sole of her foot pressing into your thigh, and a comfort in not being alone anymore—it’s nothing notable, nothing bone deep, it’s that lingering ache that has seemed to always exist inside you. Lingering like a ghost’s touch on the edges of your heart—brushes of cold that remind you that summer doesn’t always last forever—

—but it’s so hard to remember that cold when Alex is smiling, or Winn tells a particularly bad joke, or you remember that you can wrap your arms around your aunt whenever you feel like it.

And moment’s like this where there’s a woman who only knows you in pieces, but seems to grasp so much beyond that. Who curls up against the arm of her couch and just smiles—soft and sweet, and just a little sleepy.

.

“What’re we watching?” Cat asks long after she’s already turned to the almost silent screen.

You shuffle and twist, not pulling back when your hand lands on the smooth length of Cat’s calf. She doesn’t move, doesn’t recoil, and you find yourself idly tracing the muscles on the back of her leg, which makes toes wiggle a little against your thigh. “Lucy.”

Cat just hums. “Perfect.”

.

In the morning, Cat’s tucked up under your chin and your ribs ache for it—there’s a drawing burn when you breath, and your lungs struggle just a little—but it feels _wonderful_. She’s light, and her fingers half-curl into the wrinkled mess of your shirt—the brush of her thumb against your collarbone is like a livewire down your spine.

Cat snores—just a little, _so softly_ —and you can’t stop the stupid smile.

You’re an idiot.

(An idiot in like—in lust?…In _something_.)

“Sometimes,” you whisper, listening to her breathing to make sure she’s still asleep, still unable to hear your before-sunrise confessions. “Sometimes I can’t help but believe in fate, because there’s no logical reason you should be here.” A strand of her hair brushes past your nose and it takes every ounce of willpower to not sneeze and disturb the woman sprawled over you.

“Here. In my arms. In my life.” In _something_. You watch the screen, but the season is over and it sits unmoving on the episode list.

Free will is overrated if this is what destiny has to offer.

.

When you wake up next, you’re alone—the throw blanket draped over you and tucked in around your shoulders.

Someone’s humming in the kitchen—a little off key, and _definitely_ from a musical.

It makes you smile.

.

“Can’t Kara _stay?”_ Carter asks from where he’s perched on the couch—a game of Lords of Waterdeep a mess across the coffee table. He’d absolutely trounced you and Cat, and you think he’s still just a _bit_ smug about it.

(He’s definitely Cat’s son.)

“What do I say about whining?” Cat asks from where she’s absolutely _not_ pondering her losing strategy of making it too obvious that she was the builder—never a woman who could resist power grabs. She’s three glasses of wine in, and just a little more fluid than sobriety implies—soft, and sweet, and still just a bit sharp.

You like— _love_ —it.

“That I’m too evolved for it, but _mom_ ,” both you and Cat laugh as he flops backwards on the couch, arm thrown out dramatically in your direction like you might pry him from this ill-gotten fate.

“Sorry, buddy, but you’ll have to demolish just your mother this time. I have to get home, and Doctor Grant says I’m clear to sleep alone.” You’re smiling, and light, and there’s that warmth in your chest—until you realize what you’ve said and you panic, and backpedal—standing up quick enough to get a little dizzy, you swipe hands through the air as if you can vanquish your words.

“Not alone! I mean, _yes alone_ —but I sleep alone…every night… _especially_ last night, and I meant without being woken up! Because—my…f—face…,” you lose a little steam because both Grants are staring at you like you’ve sprouted another head, and you don’t imagine the wicked gleam in Cat’s eye that says she’s absolutely enjoying herself.

“I woke up early to get water,” Carter supplies, which seem unrelated until— “You guys were totally cuddling. It was gross.” He stands up and gives you a quick hug that you’re too shocked to reciprocate, but it doesn’t seem to both him because he releases and walks down the hall. “Bye Kara! Come back soon!”

Cat just looks happy, and the swelling fear roiling in your stomach smooths and cools and you’re left with a dopey smile of your own.

.

Cat walks you out and closes the door softly behind—you’re both standing in the hall and she’s leaning back against her apartment door. She’s miles, and leagues, and eons away from the woman you walk home—no sharp suit, no perfectly coiffed hair, or meticulously done makeup. No, she’s soft, and wrapped in clothes that you know not everyone has the privilege to see her in.

“Hi,” you say, because—what _can_ you say?

Cat just stares—eyes bright and warm. “Hi back.”

There’s very little in you that worries about the step you take forward—nothing in your heart protests the movement—there’s something cold in your reptilian brain, but it’s so easy to ignore it’s like it never existed to begin with. Cat watches, head tipped back against the door, arms falling to her sides—it’s an invitation, it’s the only thing you know for sure.

“I had a good time,” you whisper, because anything louder would feel like a gunshot in the quiet settling over you.

“Just good?” Cat inquires, eyebrows up, lips tugging into that smirk that makes you want to—

The thought doesn’t even happen entirely before you’re kissing her—she takes like coffee, and mint, and mouth, and it’s perfect. She makes the smallest of encouraging sounds before her fingers are sliding through your hair and scratching lightly against your scalp. Without her heels she needs to stand up on the tips of her toes, and you settle a hand at the small of her back, pulling her body into yours until there’s very little room between you.

Cat Grant kisses like a declaration—simple, profound, and absolute.

You sway in the wake of her, and you’d have it no other way. Her teeth dig into your bottom lip and you can’t contain the moan—it feels long over-due, like you’ve been waiting to kiss her since the moment you met her. Parting just a fraction of an inch, you feel light headed and divine…

“Good? Did I say good? I meant great—fantastic—splendid—wonderful,” she cuts you off with another kiss and you swoon just a little. “Phenomenal. Definitely phenomenal.”

“That’s much better,” she’s grinning, and you think she’s gorgeous—and though you’re leaning in for another kiss, she has both hands on your shoulders and shoves you back a little. “Up, up and away, Supergirl. You don’t get to miss me if you don’t leave.” She’s playful, and light, and you’re drinking it all down—even as you walk backwards toward the elevator.

“I already miss you,” you say, and she laughs.

“I have to watch out for you, Kara. You’re a dangerous one.” Cat hasn’t moved—she’s a little rumpled, and you can remember the feel of her hips in the palms of your hands. Creasing the soft fabric of her robe in all the right places. She presses a hand to her stomach and sighs. “I miss you too.”

.

You hum the entire walk home.

.

Metropolis is even bigger than National City if that’s possible.

You’ve never been to the city before, but Kal-El had finally gotten a bigger apartment and asked if you wanted to spend some time there over the summer. It hadn’t been much of a decision to quit your job at Starbucks—even though you’d become shift lead—and fly across the country.

You’d walked Cat home a few weeks ago and told her you’d be out of town—that she should really take her town car home. You may have gotten her flowers—no big deal.

You definitely kissed her.

“Miss me?” She’d asked with little bit of a smirk, her flowers almost forgotten on the top of a newspaper dispenser. You much prefer her fingers digging through your hair and holding you close.

“Already,” you’d confessed, and it had been the truth. You could already taste the bitter loss on your tongue, this chosen separation—you’re a little dramatic, (a lot dramatic), but you know you’ll miss her terribly.

.

You’re sitting beside Kal-El’s desk with a _visitor_ badge clipped to your collar and trying your hardest to not embarrass your cousin too horribly. Everyone calls him _Clark_ like that’s his actual name, and you don’t know exactly why.

“It’s a joke,” he sighs while shepherding you out of the news bullpen with a little speed—even though you’re an adult now, he still towers over you. His hands seem just as big as they had when you were a teenager and he was going away to college.

“It isn’t funny?” You try, but he laughs and shakes his head.

“Okay, so, there’s this girl— _woman_ , Lois—she’s…Kara, she’s a reporter. And we’re kind of—…” He trails off, but you know your cousin—know the look in his eye as the same one from when he was sixteen and was convinced he was in love with Kathleen DeMarco, a senior that wouldn’t give him the time of day.

“In love?” The cafeteria is _big_ and there are more vending machines than you know what to do with.

“No!” Kal-El shouts, slapping a hand over your mouth to keep any further comments inside. “In hate! In loathing! In anything but love; the _furthest_ thing from love.” He’s being _serious_ , it’s the tuck of his brow and the purse of his lips, but he still looks like he’s a little in love…and you don’t believe him. “But we’re partners, and we had this stupid cross-country documentary project. Cross country, Lewis and Clark, get it?”

You frown, because that’s the vaguest reason for a nickname, but another nameless face shouts _Clark_ cheerfully from across the room and your cousin raises a hand in greeting.

“That’s stupid,” you intone, less worried about embarrassing him. He’s obviously an idiot. “Do they call her Lewis?

Kal-El boggles and exhales loudly, “no.”

“Even worse.”

.

The office is going _insane_.

You’re in your favorite spot beside Kal-El’s desk and no one is paying you any attention—something big is happening, something that has seasoned reporters scrambling. Including your cousin. He’s disheveled and wearing mismatching shoes—his boss had called him into the office on his day off demanding that _all hands on deck meant all hands on fucking deck, Kent._ You’d shuffled along behind him a half hour later—after stopping for some really good bagels.

“Today?! Of all days!” Kal-El’s bemoaning, slapping the side of his monitor like it would help it move any faster—glaring at the screen with sleep crusted eyes behind lenses he likes to pretend he doesn’t need.

“Something I should know?” You ask, because you’re not _panicking_ —not when you can see legitimate panic spreading amongst the Daily Planet staff. No, you’re… _curious_ at best.

“Just that we’re all _doomed_ ,” head on keyboard, his coworker nodding absently in agreement.

.

The end is nigh.

.

“She’s _here_.” Someone says in a stage whisper and _stillness_ consumed the office—papers flutter and desks are shoved as chairs are righted and reporters assume their positions behind their screens. All the panic is swallowed as diligent fingers fly across keyboards with the intent of bringing Metropolis the news. The hysteria vanishes artificially and you can still see stares with too much white around the color—lips pressed together to tightly they’re white and thin.

The door flies open.

.

A grand entrance—you should have known.

.

She’s gorgeous in the pale blue sheath she’s wearing—almost gray, but still definitely blue—hugging sinful curves that everyone is too scared right now to admire.

(You’re definitely not scared.)

Strong calves flexing as she easily navigates the mess on the floor in dangerously tall heels—easily four inches, and _sharp_. There’s only the first few _click clicks_ as she steps off tile and onto the worn bare industrial carpeting.

“Perry, I can hear them flailing two floors away, the stoicism is really a lost cause.” She’s grinning a devilish curl of lips, and your heart skips a beat—maybe two, because you haven’t seen Cat in four weeks. You haven’t had the scent of her perfume clouding your senses, you haven’t had the soft give of her waist beneath your hands. A little necking now and again seemed to ruin you for all other feelings.

A reporter a handful of years older than you shakes _just a little_ as she walks past. Her green, green eyes sweeping over computer screens and haphazardly tossed notebooks with something that might look like interest—but you know is just simmering _delight_. She’s thrilled with herself, full of it in a way that makes her glow, and you _something_ her even more.

If that was possible.

“Cat,” Perry White declares from his office doorway, as if he too hadn’t been half-scrambling for cover. “Is it that time of year already?” Summer? Saturday? You don’t know what he means, but Cat must because she laughs. A bright chime of a sound that makes a few people nearby—including your cousin—flinch a little.

You’re enamored.

She’s facing away from you, but she’s so close that you can see that there are the faintest stripes on the dress—almost the exact same shade of blue, but just a _hint_ darker.

“Afraid so,” she’s glib, hands clasped in front of her—and you imagine a great cat (pun very much intended) with claws extended, waiting for some prey-animal dumb enough to get too close.

“Well, this year we have Kent,” your cousin’s boss says confidently, and Kal-El freezes. Stone still, and you watch him turn slowly in his chair and just _watch_ as his boss throws him under the bus. It would have been funny to watch your cousin flounder for something to say, but Cat turns and her green, green eyes pass right over him…

—and land on you.

“Oh,” soft, light, _sincere_. She’s staring _through_ you and you feel it in your chest—the _thump-thump_ of your heart jack-rabbiting. You take a big breath, and it burns like it’s the first—and you fill your lungs with the scent of her once more. Sweet and calming after a long absence, practically mouth-matering.

“Oh, hey, I’m—Kent. Kal-E—oh, er, Clark Kent?” Your cousin stands up and offers his hand, and Cat shakes it—not bothering to find a purell wipe afterward which makes half the office worried. It’s kind of funny watching him try to decide if he should give his actual name, or what the journalistic world knows him as.

Cat’s still looking at you with a growing smile, which makes Kal-El quick to introduce you. “And this is my cousin, Kara Z—.”

“I don’t need to know the name of every country bumpkin you bring to the big city, Mister Kent.” It seems rude, but you know she’s stopping him from telling her your name—not willing to hear it from anyone but you. And, you can’t even lie, you swoon—a dopey smile on your face, hands clasped in your lap so that you wouldn’t try to do something silly like _hold her_.

You’re so gone—you’re definitely in _something_.

.

 _You_ have to pee, but you don’t know what _her_ excuse is.

Not that you care.

.

The bathroom door is locked and you have her hoisted up onto the counter, her heels crossed at your lower back, the blade of her shoes digging uncomfortably into your spine. The height discrepancy means you have the perfect line of sight to her neck; nipping and kissing across her collarbones and up toward her ear, you’d die just to be able to have the throaty burr of her moans always.

“I missed you,” you whisper, teeth tugging the lobe of her ear just a _little_. You’re burning alive and you know you have to stop this, know that nothing can happen beyond this because you’re in a public bathroom at you cousin’s job. And Cat Grant is too classy to be felt up on a sink counter.

“I missed you too,” she’s smiling, very much wicked, and her grip tightens just enough that the tug makes you quiver. A slackening of your whole body has you listing into the cradle of her legs on either of your sides. You feel heavy, and full, and warm. “Is this where you’ve been hiding these last few weeks?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, practically rubbing your cheek into the hand she has curled along the side of your neck. “Kal-El invited me to stay for the summer. And, like, I haven’t seen him much since he left for college, so—.” You trail off as her fingers scratch your scalp and you go _boneless_ —you have no doubt that Cat Grant could get anything she wants out of you.

“He never did seem like a Clark.”

“Have you seen how much flannel he wears? He’s such a Clark.” You’re smiling up at her, and she looks pretty fond herself. Green eyes soft and washed at the edges, and you’re drowning in the color of them.

“Kal-El—you had me call you El. A family name?”

“Mhm,” you hum, rubbing your thumb against the smooth texture of her dress—you feel her side shiver with each pass and it makes you feel some kind of pride. “House of El, our family. Our parents were from Krypton—uhm, they left during the civil war. We were raised in Kansas.” Cat’s looking at you with eyes bright with something like dissection, and you know that this is who made a media empire. There’s a recognition in her, a sharp intelligence that shivers and slides most of the time—hiding in plain sight.

“House of El, that’s one of the noble families.” She doesn’t say _was_ , which even your father had had difficulty saying—he’d been just a boy when your grandfather had fled, he could barely remember the country he’d called home, once upon a time. “Kara El. I like it.”

You smile, light and fuzzy, and it isn’t very hard to say, “Zor-El. Kara Zor-El.”

.

It feels like a step in the right direction.

It feels right. Like being in _something_.

.

“Winn, I swear on everything pastel and cross-stitched, if you open that oven one more time, I will eBay your signed America’s Next Top Model blu ray.”

It’s Thanksgiving and you’re making your first turkey.

YouTube was helpful—but three hours of tasty videos later, you have an entire meal planned and you have never really cooked before.

Eggs, sure. Bacon, always.

You went shopping with a rock-anthem blasting in your ears and shopping has never been more empowering. There’s produce in your fridge you don’t even know the name of.

“But it smells so _good_ ,” he whines, standing in the kitchen like he wasn’t just opening the oven.

“You’ll let the hot…out.” You stumble, pursing your lips and huffing. “Or the cold in. I don’t know!”

“Won’t the cold become hot once it’s in the oven—won’t I just be giving the turkey a heated cross-breeze?” You’re not an expert on oven dynamics, but you _know_ Winn isn’t either.

“Say bye-bye to Tyra, Winn.” You say, flinging yourself up and off the couch, with every intent of rummaging through the entertainment system for his prized possession.

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” he gasps, hand on chest and everything.

You grin, “wouldn’t I?”

“You’re a monster, Kara. A beast, a nightmare.”

.

Winn doesn’t open the oven again, and you put him to work.

You make the mistake of asking him to get the chest of your mother’s silverware from your closet.

.

He comes back with your blood stained sweatshirt, and the mask that’s decently prominent on the local newspapers.

.

“Kara, I’m not judging, or panicking, or thinking the worst—but you seem to have a bloody vigilante uniform on the floor of your closet.” The mask is fairly new—you’d given it a try when you’d lost one too many scarves. You’d actually gotten it from the Renaissance faire—and not cheaply, either. The hood and mask were one, made in parts with leather and in other parts with cotton and silk—the vender had called it a _cowl_ , but you’re pretty sure it’s just an awesome hood.

If you could think quickly on your feet, you’d tell him it was a cosplay, or something for the faire—

—but instead you stand there and gape.

“I—what? No? That’s—…” Winn stares at your awesome hood in his hand, and then the newspaper from last week that shows a decent image of said on—you’d been a little arrogant, and had waved to one of the CatCo reporters with some misconstrued notion that it was like waving to Cat—who had actually been overseas at the time dealing with some breakdown of common sense in London.

“A vigilante uniform?” Winn prompts, thrusting the awesome hood— _cowl_ —forward a little.

“It’s not a uniform!” You huff, slumping down into your chair and crossing your arms—only _you_ would have your totally secret night-time activities revealed on Thanksgiving. “I—Winn, I can explain.”

“No, this makes total sense. I was so worried when you’d come home with, like, bruises and stuff—I thought you were in a bad relationship, or something.” He’s rushing through the words, and sitting down himself, the awesome hood crumpled half-forgotten in his lap. “I may have followed you a few times—only once or twice! Just to…you know, make sure you were okay.” He looks guilty, _really guilty_ , and he must think you’re going to be mad.

But all you can think about is what you might’ve been doing that didn’t reveal said midnight-occupation, but would make him…

“What’d you see, Winn?” You know already, there’s only one explanation.

“Nothing! You don’t need to worr—,” you interrupt him.

“Winn.”

“Okay, so, I might’ve seen you walking someone home—or like—somewhere else. And…,” he stops, and swallows. He’s been your best friend for a while now, and you can read the choice to say what’s on his mind in the set of his shoulders. “When did you start dating my boss?”

 _Dating_. You and Cat hadn’t put a name to anything, you’d stopped by a few times since that night and it had just been—comfortable. Carter would convince you to play board games, and you’d in turn convince Cat to stay up late and watch television with you. _Watch_ , being a bit loose term for the necking that always seemed to happen instead.

And on one of those night, before you’d been able to kiss her goodnight and go home, she’d fallen asleep. Palm flat against your stomach under your shirt, head tucked under your chin—the midnight-blue glow of the television washed across her cheeks and through her hair. It had felt a whole lot like the perfect ending—like _this_ was how every night should end. Not a goodbye, not a dark walk home, but Cat Grant in your arms.

“Remember when she was kidnapped last spring?” It’s insane to think it had been that long ago—months, on months, on months. Of you being in just the right place, at just the right time.

“Yeah, the police found her.”

“No, I did. I—uhm, she was all tied up with the bag over her head, and she was making fun of them. God, Winn, it was amazing. I was so scared, and she was just—she was so calm.” You’re swooning, and you can’t stop. “Afterward, I was—I don’t know, worried or something. So I started—walking her home.”

And more importantly, she let you.

“That’s,” he’s staring, and you’re shifting—but he smiles. Winn’s someone who smiles with his whole face—a light of a person when given even the slightest chance. “That’s a pretty epic beginning to a love story.”

“We’re not in love!” You protest, _weakly_.

He just laughs. “Aren’t you?”

.

Shit.

He’s right. You’re totally in love.

.

You finally get the courage to be Kara Zor-El, to be yourself—all of yourself—instead of whoever you’ve been this last year and a half. It’s almost Christmas. It’s chilly, the wind picking up, the sky gray and cloudy—but it never snows in National City. You hand your license over at the security counter, you wait for a phone call to be made—you wait, and wait, and wait.

You’re wearing new dark denims that are a _little_ tight, but you can arguably say you look good in them—you’re wearing an oxford shirt which makes you feel like you’re being low-key strangled by the collar. Tucked in neatly, and you decided on a belt over suspenders because even Winn had winced this morning when you were asking his opinions.

“Miss Zor-El?” The security guard asks, and you turn around with a smile—he holds a _visitor’s_ badge up with a small smile. “Floor sixty-one.”

.

It reminds you immediately of the Daily Planet—there’s desks and bodies everywhere, but the desks match, and everyone seems to have some understanding on organization. Piles near piles, and pens and pencils in cups on the edges of desks near monitors.

There’s a cluster in the hallway just outside the elevator, near the literal water cooler that seems to have way more knobs and levers than the normal type. There’s three people with little cups in their hands—it proudly declares that everything is recycled and biodegradable.

“She was smiling way too widely,” one girl is saying, brown eyes wide and glancing back into the room.

“Maybe she got a chance to fire someone?” Another girl asks, shrugging a little—they both look young, but they’re put together and something tells you that they aren’t just interns trying to make a buck and some college credit.

“No—I don’t know. Maybe?”

.

“Do you have an appointment?” A woman with dark hair asks from where she sits at a desk outside the large office separated by the frosted glass windows. There’s a plaque that says _Miss Smyth_ on her desk, prominently displayed and you kind of flounder—because you _don’t_ have an appointment, but you _do_ have a visitor badge.

You suddenly feel like that isn’t enough.

“Uhm, no? But, I just wanted to pop in for a sec and ask Cat a question and I’ll be out of your h—,” you don’t even get to finish because the woman is dismissing you with a wave of her hand. Turning to click a few keys—you wait patiently because…well, because you don’t even know if you should be doing this anymore.

“ _Miss Grant_ ,” she stresses while turning back to you. “Is a busy woman and doesn’t have time to talk to every stray that wanders in with a visitor badge. You can make an appointment with me and I’ll get back to you at a later date on if it’s at all possible.” She’s—stone serious. Watching you with a frank expression and a tablet poised to take down your information—you glance at the chair behind the large desk, turned away and toward the wall of screens.

.

You want to call out—want to push open the doors and cross the twenty feet that separates you from her.

It feels much wider—miles, eons, and whole leagues.

Who’re you to try bypassing her secretary? You’re—no one.

.

“Oh, yeah, totally.” You smile, hoping this woman will smile back—she doesn’t. Wringing your hands, you laugh a little and clear your throat. “Kara Zor-El. Z-O-R hyphen E-L.”

“Reason for visit?”

You can’t just say _I want to ask her on a date_ , because you don’t think Miss Smyth will take you seriously—she’ll probably just kick you out. Call that nice security guard and have you escorted out with a warning to not come back.

“Oh, uhm,” you stammer, and she raises a brow. Unimpressed. “I just—want to ask her something?”

“Something—very specific.” She deadpans, finally looking a little happy—and her hand is sliding to the phone, and you just _know_.

Maybe you _should_ just try to burst into the office.

“Sharron,” a voice comes—the voice of an _angel_ —and you both turn to the office. Cat’s spun around in her chair and she’s watching with half-lid eyes and a smirk. Your heart stumbles and stutters and Miss Smyth— _Sharron_?—straightens up; hand poised on the tablet again. “Let her in.”

Sharron is _not_ happy, but you happily scamper past and push the glass door closed behind you.

.

You have absolutely no problem believing that Cat grant controls most of the known media landscape—you’ve had to listen to more than one rant from Kal-El about what an influence she is in the news spheres. She doesn’t get up, but there’s a light to her eyes that spreads and seeps when she sees you—when she watches you close the door and take a seat across from her. She doesn’t smile—not exactly—but there’s a tightness to her cheeks that lets you know she’s trying to contain the expression.

Her lips are pale and her eyes smoky—but it doesn’t matter, you’ve seen her at one in the morning and nothing changes. She’s beautiful and you could cut yourself on the green depth of her eyes—a tumble through color that you wish you had words for. You’d asked Kal-El and he’d given you five or six off the top of his head— _emerald, chartreuse, peridot, sage, forest, olive, celadon_ —but all of them had seemed like silly little quirks.

“Hi,” you say, because—what _can_ you say?

Cat just stares—eyes bright and warm. “Hi back.”

You can _feel_ the eyes on you from the bullpen, and you know they’re all waiting for the moment Cat makes you run crying from the office—Winn has told you way too many horror stories. It’s making you a little itchy, a little twitchy, and Cat must see it because she stands up abruptly and crooks her finger for you to follow—which is so easy to do.

You’d spend the rest of your life following in Cat’s wake if you could.

.

The view from her balcony is _amazing_. You don’t think you’ve ever been this high before—National City spreads out below you and the office behind you can’t see you in this secluded corner, so there’s nothing stopping you from hopping up on the edge of the balcony. Looking straight down to the street below there’s a rush of adrenaline in your chest—a jump of your heart, and rush of blood. The wind buffers and it’s cold up here—actually _cold_ —and you feel _amazing_.

“Could you _please_ stop climbing over the railing?” Cat says, a hand to her chest while she watches you with exasperation—and maybe a little fear.

“Sorry, sorry,” you sooth while dropping back to your feet and walking over to her. Clasping one of her hands in yours like you’ve wanted to since you saw her sitting there—impossibly far for twenty feet. “I’m a climber.”

“Well, please just climb closer to the ground. You’ll give me a heart attack.”

Grinning, you lean in to kiss her—she’s soft, and cool, and gives into the bend of your body. She’s brackets into the corner of the balcony and you could spend the rest of forever just like this. The zipper of her jacket catches your hand as you slip it beneath to smooth around her side and to her lower back.

Cat allows the kiss—hand up into your hair, one against your cheek to keep you close even when you release her lips in a wet smack. You grin happily at her, swooning inside and out—she leans back against the wall and you smooth hands over the slim line of her jacket.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Supergirl?” She purrs, fingers toying with the necklace around your neck—picking it up just enough to pull you close and kiss you. You follow without protest, moaning at the back of your throat.

“I—what?” You can’t focus with her fingers rubbing through the fine hairs on the back of your neck, her other hand toying with the chain dangling down into your shirt.

“What’re you here for, Kara?” She grins, happiness squinting her green, green eyes.

“Oh!” you clear your throat, and lick your lips—tasting the matte flavorlessness of her lipstick on yours. “I wanted to ask you on a date. Or, well, to—you know—come somewhere with me. But in a, you know, date-like fashion.”

Cat laughs.

“You’ve been spending too much time with me, my dramatic flair is rubbing off on you.” You boggle, and she smooths a thumb along your brow. “Coming to my job? Going to battle with my secretary? You’re lucky that Phil, the security guard, has had your name since the summer with instruction to call me if you come in.”

You _glow_. She’s shaking her head a little in exasperation and you swell with something like pride because your name was with _security_. It’s the safety net you hadn’t been expecting, but knowing it was there makes you warm with something like delight.

But she hasn’t said one thing, “is that a yes?”

Shaking her head cat says. “That’s a yes.”

.

You’ve been in National City for six years—you’ve seen the season change, you’ve seen the political landscape scale and slide, and you’ve worked your way into the heart of this home away from home. The buildings are still large, the night still dark, but you know what direction you’re facing. Forward, always.

Crouching on a fire escape over a warehouse being taped off by a good handful of National City police officers—your biggest stop yet. A crime lab for one of the local cartel affiliates—you know one of your fingers is broken, but you feel an exhale of relief building in your chest. This group had been slowly ruining this neighborhood—high schoolers pressured into trying their supply, a growing crime rate, more over-doses in the last quarter than the whole prior year.

You know about power-vacuums, but you also know a name means something.

There’s a bruise on your ribs where a nine mil bullet had slammed into your lower ribs—it had been a frantic moment when the air had been knocked out of you. A moment of spinning worlds and spiraling thoughts until you’d inhaled loudly and staggered back to your feet with swaying intent. You thank your stars that you’d started wearing a bulletproof vest under your clothes.

Elbows on knees you watch the spiraling red and white lights—there’s more and more cruisers pulling in, including a tactical truck parking along the curb with a flow of black clad men and women with severe expressions. They’re dragging men out by their elbow, keeping them on their feet with hands clasped to their elbows.

“Supergirl,” a familiar voice says below you, and you glance down to see the cop that’s been with you through this all. A man in his early thirties now—a husband last spring, a father over the summer—Richie looks up at you from under the brim of his police issue ball cap—a Detective now with narcotics, he’d been who you rang when you’d scrambled from the interior. The crew inside spiraling in panic; hurt and afraid for once.

“One of those lowlifes said they shot you in the chest,” he says with concern—and you see something in him that says he believes you could take a bullet to the chest and live. You’ve seen the internet theories—you’re an alien, a government experiment that escaped, a _vampire_ —and you wonder how many people actually _believe_ that.

(Probably too many.)

Lifting the hem of your jacket, you display the pocked vest that had saved your life.

“Vested,” you say simply, watching a few people cluster and look in your direction. You know you’re cloaked in the shadows, but they can definitely see Richie. “Guess I should go.”

“Captain still wants us to bring you in, you know.” He doesn’t move at all when you stand up—slowly—and put a hand on the railing, ready to climb to the roof and get home.

It’s the same thing you’ve said to him half a hundred times by now—hand over the ache in your side, already dreading having to snap your finger back into position. “You gonna bring me in, Richie?”

He laughs—loud and joyous. “Anyone waiting for you at home?”

You imagine the warm darkness of your girlfriend’s apartment—the brand-new key heavy in your pocket, and you can’t help grinning beneath the mask of your awesome hood— _cowl_ —because so much has changed. You think of the woman wrapped in the high thread-count of her sheets, a woman who leaves pajamas out on the edge of her bed, who always knows when you’re just a little too late. Who falls asleep half the time in your arms on the couch.

A woman you love, a woman you would do anything for.

Looking down at the Detective, you shake your head and keep to this little script, but so much has changed.

“Does a Cat count?”

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to send me prompt ideas **@civilorange**


End file.
